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THE  MODERN  BOOKS  OF  VERSE 


THE  MODERN  BOOK 
OF  FRENCH  VERSE 


THE  MODERN  BOOK 
OF   FRENCH   VERSE 


IN  ENGLISH  TRANSLATIONS  BY 
CHAUCER,  FRANCIS  THOMPSON, 
SWINBURNE,  ARTHUR  SYMONS, 
ROBERT  BRIDGES,  JOHN  PAYNE 
AND  OTHERS 


EDITED  BY  ALBERT  BONI 


y 


BONI    AND    LIVERIGHT 
PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


COPYBIGHT,    1920 

By  Boni  &  LivEKiGET,  Inc. 
All  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  in  Die  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 


AUTHOR  AND  TITLE  TRANSLATED  BY 

GUILLAUME   DE    POITIERS    (IO7I-    ?    ) 

Behold,  the  meads H.  W.  Preston 

Chanson  de  Roland   (Xllth  Cent.) 

Death  of  Archbishop  Turpin     .     .      H.  W.  Longfellow 

Marcabrun  (Xllth  cent.) 

At  the  fountain H.  W.  Preston 

Bernard  de  Ventadour  (113a-    ?    ) 

No  marvel  is  it " 


Marie  de  Fr.-.nce  (Xlllth  cent.) 

Song  from  Chartivel A.  O'Skaughnessy 

Would  I  might  go  far  over  sea       .     .  " 

The  VroAME  de  Chartres  (12-    ?    ) 
April A.  C.  Swinburne  . 

Guillaume  de  Lorris  (1230-  ) 

Romaunt  of  the  Rose  ,,,...      Chaucer       .     .     . 

Jean  Froissart  (1338-1404) 

Rondel H.  W.  Longfellow 

Al-MN  Chartier  (1386-1449) 

From  La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Mercy       Chaucer       .     .     . 

Charles  d'Orleans  (1391-1465) 

Rondel Andrew  Lang  .  . 

Spring "            "      .  . 

Alons  au  bois  !e  may  cueillir     .     .  W.  E.  Henley  .  . 

Dieu  qu'il  la  fait Ezra  Pound     .  . 

Old  French 

John  of  Tours  is  back  with  peace  .      D.  G.  Rossetti  .     . 

Normande 

Ballade  de  Marguerite     ....      Oscar  Wilde     .     . 

Breton 
The  dole  of  the  king's  daughter      .  "         " 

MEDiiEVAL  Norman  Songs 

I     Fair  is  her  body,  bright  her 

eye J.  A.  Symonds     . 

II     Sad,    lost   in   thought,   and 

mute  I  go "  . 

III  Kiss  me  then,  my  merry  May 

IV  Before    my    lady's    window  " 

gay 

V     I  found  at  daybreak  yester 

morn "  . 

V 


PAGB 

I 


6 
7 


14 

14 

18 

19 

19 
20 

20 

22 

24 

25 

25 
25 

26 
26 


v7v>4St^-'^0 


n 


CONTENTS 


AUTHOR  AND  TITLE  TRANSLATED   BY 

VI     This    month    of    May,    one 

pleasant  eventide     .     .       J.  A.  Symonds 
VII     In  this  merry  morn  of  May 
VIII     O  Love,  my  Love,  and  per-  ^^ 

feet  bliss ,, 

IX     Alas,  poor  heart,  I  pity  thee 
X     Nowr  who  is  he  on  earth  that  ^^ 

lives 

XI     Sweet  fiower,  that  art  so  fair  ^^ 

and  gay ,, 

XII     My  love  for  him  shall  be 

XIII  Beneath  the  branch  of  the 

green  May ,, 

XIV  They  have  said  evil  of  my  dear 

XV     They  lied,  those  lying  trait-  ^^ 

ors  all 

XVI     O  nightingale  of  woodland  ^^ 

gay ;    •    • 

XVII     Maid  Marjory  sits  at  the  cas-  ^^ 

tie  gate 

XVIII     Drink,     gossips     mine,     we  ^^ 

drink  no  wine      .... 
Ballads 

The  three  captains Andrew  Lang  . 

The  bridge  of  death    .... 

Le  pere  severe 

The  milk-white  doe  .... 
A  lady  of  high  degree  .  .  . 
Lost  for  a  rose's  sake 

Old  French 
My  Father's  close D.  G.  Rossetti 

Francois  Villon  (1431-1489) 

Ballad  of  the  gibbet Andrew  Lang 

Rondel 

Arbor  Amoris ■ 

No,  I  Am  Not,  as  Others  Are  .  . 
Straight  Tip  to  All  Cross  Coves  . 
The  Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies         .     . 

To  Death,  of  His  Lady 

His  Mother's  Service  to  Our  Lady  . 
The  Complaint  of  the  Fair  Armouress 
A  Double  Ballad  of  Good  Counsel 

Fragment  on  Death 

Ballad  of  the  Lords  of  Old  Time  .  . 
Ballad  of  the  Women  of  Paris  .  .  . 
Ballad  Written  for  a  Bridegroom  .  . 
Ballad  Against  the  Enemies  of  France 
The  Dispute  of  the  Heart  and  the  Body 
Epistle  in  the  Form  of  a  Ballad  to  His 

Friends 

The  Epitaph  in  the  Form  of  a  Ballad 


Arthur  Symons 
W.  E.  Henley  . 
D.  G.  Rossetti  . 


A.  C.  Swinburne 


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27 

27 
28 

28 

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48 
48 
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52 
54 
54 
55 
56 
57 
58 

60 
61 


CONTENTS 

author  and  title  translated  by 

Mellin  de  Saint-Gelais  (1491-1558) 

The  sonnet  of  the  mountain     .     .       Austin  Dobson      .     . 

Clement  Marot  (149 5-1544) 

The  posy-ring Ford  Madox  Hueffer 

A  love-lesson Leigh  Hunt 

Madame  d'Albert's  laugh     .     .     .  .    "         " 

Jacques  Tahureau  (1527-1555) 

Shadows  of  his  lady Andrew  Lang 

Moonlight "  " 

Jean  Passerat  (1534-1602) 

The  lover  and  the  grasshoppers     .  John  Payne 

Canzonet  to  his  mistress       .     .     .  .    " 

Love  in  May Andrew  Lang 

Pierre  de  Ronsard  (1524-1585) 

Fragment  of  a  sonnet       ....      John  Keats 

Roses Andrew  Lang 

The  rose 

To  the  moon "  " 

To  his  young  mistress "  " 

Deadly  kisses "  " 

Of  his  lady's  old  age " 

On  his  lady's  waking  ...».."  " 

His  lady's  death " 

His  lady's  tomb " 

And  Lightly,  Like  the  Flowers  .     .      W.  E.  Henley 
The  paradox  of  time Austin  Dobson 

Joachim  du  Bellay  (1525-1560) 

From  the  visions Spencer  .     . 

Hymn  to  the  winds Andrew  Lang 

A  vow  to  heavenly  Venus     ....      "  " 

To  his  friend  in  Elysium       .     .     .     .      "  " 

A  sonnet  to  heavenly  beauty    ...      "  " 

Rome Ezra  Pound 


Robert  Bridges 
Arthur  Piatt 


Louise  Labe  (i 526-1 566) 

Povre  Ame  amoureuse     .     .     . 
Long  as  I  still  can  shed  tears 

Remy  Belleau  (1528-1577) 

April Andrew  Lang 

In  praise  of  wine John  Payne 

Love  and  money 

Philip  Desportes  (1545-1606) 

Sonnet,  Can  it  be  true     .     .     . 

The  dream 

Sonnet,  When  you  and  I       ....    "  " 

Theophile  de  Viau  (1590-1626) 

Sleep Edmund  Gosse 

Pierre  Corneille  (1606-1684) 
Les  Ravages  du  temos     .     .     . 


John  Payne 


James  Robertson 


page 

62 


63 
63 
64 

64 

65 


65 
66 

67 

68 
69 
69 
70 
70 

71 
72 
72 
73 

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74 

76 

78 
79 
79 
80 
80 

81 
81 

82 
84 
86 

86 
87 
87 

88 
89 


VUl 


CONTENTS 


author  and  title  thanslated  by 

La  Fontaine  (1621-1695) 

The  cock  and  the  fox E.  Wright   .     .     . 

Love  and  folly W.  C.  Bryant  .     . 

Jean-Baptiste  Poquelin  Moli^re   (1622-1673) 

Austin  Dobson 


Charles  Randolph 


Tobias  Smollett 


To  M.  de  la  Mothe  le  Vayer 

Jean  Racine  (1639-1699) 
From  the  chorus  of  "Athalie" 

Voltaire  (1694-1778) 

Stanzas  upon  the  epic  poets 

Andre  Chenier  (i  760-1 794) 

Elegies:  I  Every  man  has  his  sorrows  Arthur  Symons    . 
II    A  white  nymph  wandering  in  the 

woods     

Ill     Well,  I  would  have  it  so   ...     " 

The  young  captive W.J.  Robertson  . 

Communion  of  saints       ....      Robert  Bridges      . 

Joseph  Rouget-de-l'Isle  (i 760-1 836) 

Marseilles  Hymn Anonymous     .    . 

Pierre  Jean  de  Beranger  (1780-1857) 

The  king  of  Yvetot William  Toynbee 

Les  souvenirs  du  peuple  ....      James  Robertson  . 

Le  cinq  May 
Marceline  Desbordes-Valmore  (1785-1859) 

Refuge Johtt  Payne     .     . 

Alphonse  de  Lamartine  (1790-1869) 
f-'-  Le  lac "  "  •     • 

The  V  lley W.  J.  Robertson  . 

To  a  young  girl  that  begged  a  lock  of 
my  hair 

Evening John  Payne     ,     . 

From  the  French  (1795) 

Song  before  death A.C.Swinburne. 

Alfred  de  Vigny  (1797-1863) 

Moses Grace  King      .     . 

Jacques  Jasmin  (1798-1864) 

The  ice-hearted  siren H.  W.  Preston      . 

Victor  Hugo  (1802-1885) 

The  Veil Democratic  Review 

The  Djinns Anonymous      .     . 

A  sunset Francis  Thompson 

Heard  or  the  mountain "  " 

Aubade John  Payne 

June  nights 

Love's  nest 

The  lonely  hours |'  || 

By  the  seaside 

Light  on  the  horizon "         " 


page 

90 
91 

92 
93 
93 

94 

95 
95 
96 

97 
97 

99 
100 

103 
104 

105 
107 

no 
no 

1X2 
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113 

115 

116 
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121 

f24 
125 

125 

126 
126 
127 


CONTENTS 


IX 


AUTHOR  A^a)  TITLE 

The  grave  and  the  rose    . 
The  genesis  of  butterflies 
More  strong  than  time     . 
The  poor  children  .     .     . 

Her  name 

To  a  woman 

New  song  to  an  old  air    . 

In  a  church 

This  age  is  great  and  strong 
A  hymn  of  the  earth   .     . 
The  streets  and  the  woods 
To  the  imperious  beauty 

Morning 

The  pool  and  the  soul 
The  poet's  simple  faith 


TRANSLATED   BY 

Andrew  Lang  . 


A .  C.  Swinburne 
W.  J.  Robertson 


W.  M.  Hardinge 
R.  F.  Hodgson 
Edward  Dowden 


Alexandre  Dumas  (1803-1870) 

Don  Juan's  song John  Payne 

Charles-Augustin  Sainte-Beuve 
(1804-1869) 

Wish ;;      ;] 

Reverie 

Gerard  de  Nerval  (i 808-1 855) 

An  old  tune 

In  the  woods 

"El  Desdichado" 


Andrew  Lang 
John  Payne 
Andrew  Lang 


Alfred  de  Musset  (.1810-1857) 

Juana   

Tristesse 


Theophile  Gautier  (1811-1872) 

Art 

Posthumous  Coquetry      .     .     . 

Clanmonde 

Love  at  sea 

A  verse  of  Wordsworth    .     .     . 


James  Robertson 

George  Santayana 
Arthur  Symons 
Lafcadio  Hearn 
A.  C.  Swinburne 
W.  J.  Robertson 


Leconte  de  Lisle  (1818-1894) 

Hialmar  speaks  to  the  raven     .     .      J.  E.  Flecker 
The  virgin  forest John  Payne 

A  last  memory 

M««  <« 

oonrise 

Charles  Baudelaire  (1821-1867) 

The  balcony F.  P.  Sturm 

Spleen 

A  madrigal  of  sorrow 

Robed  in  a  silken  robe 

The  little  old  women 

An  allegory 

Beauty      

The  sadness  of  the  moon      .     .     ,     . 

The  seven  old  men 

Meditation Arthur  Reed  Ropes 

The  rebel Cosmo  Monkhouse 


PAGE 

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149 

150 
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152 


153 
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156 
157 

158 
159 
160 
i6x 
162 
164 

165 
166 
166 
168 
168 


X  CONTENTS 

AtTTHOE  AND  TITLE                                             TRANSLATED  BY  PAGE 

Litany  of  Satan James  Elroy  Flecker      .  169 

Don  Juan  in  Hell "          "          "       .     .  171 

Epilogue Arthur  Symons    .     .     .  171 

Henri  Murger  (1822-1861) 

Spring  in  the  students'  quarter      ,      Andrew  Lang  ....  172 

Old  loves        "           '•      ....  173 

Musette "          "      ....  174 

Thodeore  de  Banville  (1823-1844) 

The  nightingale John  Payne     ....  176 

A  love-song W.J.  Robertson  .     .     .  177 

Frederic  Mistral  (1830-1914) 

The  Mares  of  the  Camargue  (from 

the  Mirieo)      ......      George  Meredith   .     .     .  178 

The  cocooning H.  W.  Preston      .     .     .  179 

The  leaf-picking "                 ...  180 

Sully  Prudhomme  (1839-         ) 

A  supplication    .......      I.  O.  L 180 

The  ideal Dorothy  Frances  Gwiney  181 

The  shadow A.  O'Shaughnessy     .     .  182 

Profanation "                    .     .  182 

The  struggle "                    .     .  183 

The  appointment "                   .     .  183 

Alphonse  Daudet  (1840-1897) 

Three  days  of  vintage      ....      W.  J.  Robertson  .     .     .  184 

Emile  Zola  (1840-1902) 

My  wishes "                     ,.  185 

Catulle  Mendes  ( 1 841-1909) 

The  disciple "                ...  186 

The  mother "               ...  187 

Stephane  Mallarme  (1842-1898) 

Sigh Arthur  Symons    .     .     .  188 

Sea-wind "             "          ...  188 

Anguish ..."             "          ...  189 

Jose-Maria  de  Heredl\  (1842-1905) 

The  flute:  a  pastoral A.  J.  C.  Grierson      .     .  189 

Francois  Coppee  (1842-1908) 

The  three  birds W.  J.  Robertson  .     .     .  190 

On  a  tomb  in  spring-time     ....             "               ...  190 

Paul  Verlaine   (1844- 1896) 

II  pleut  doucement  sur  la  ville       ,      Ernest  Dowson     ...  191 

CoUoque  sentimental "            "           ...  191 

Spleen "             "            ...  192 

The  sky  is  up  above  the  roof    ..."            "           ...  193 

Parsifal Cuthbert  Wright   .     .     .  193 

A  Clymene Arthur  Symons     .     .     .  194 

L'amour  par  terre "             "          ...  195 

Fantoches "             "          ...  195 

Pantomime "            "          ...  196 


CONTENTS 


XI 


AtTTHOR  AND  TITLE  TRANSLATED  BY 

From  Fetes  Galantes: 

Les  Indolents Arthur  Symons 

Cythere " 

Dansl'allee " 

Mandoline "  " 

Clair  de  lune " 

SurTherbe " 

A  la  promenade "  " 

Danslagrotte " 

Les  ingenues "  " 

Cortege       .     .  ......"  " 

Les  coquillages "  " 

En  patinant " 

En  bateau " 

Lefaune " 

Lettre " 

Colombine " 

En  Sourdine " 

Soleils  couchants "  " 

Chansons  d'automne "  " 

Femme  et  chatte "  " 

From  La  bonne  chanson: 

The  white  moon  sits "  " 

The  fireside,  the  lamp's  little     .     .  "  " 

From  Romances  sans  paroles: 

'Tis  the  ecstasy  of  repose      ..."  " 
I  divine,  through  the  veil  of  a  mur- 
muring      "  " 

A  frail  hand  in  the  rose-grey  even- 
ing        " 

O  sad,  sad  was  my  soul,  alas!    .     .  "  " 

Wearily  the  plain's "  " 

There's  a  flight  of  green  and  red    .  "  " 

The  roses  were  all  red "  " 

Dance  the  jigl " 

From  Jadis  et  Naguere : 

Art  poetique "  " 

Mezzetin  Chantant " 

From  Sagesse: 

The  little  hands  that  once  were 

mine " 

O  my  God,  thou  hast  wounded  me 

with  love " 

Slumber  dark  and  deep     ,     .     .     .  " 
The  body's  sadness  and  the  languor 

thereof    " 

Fairer  is  the  sea " 

From  Parallelement: 

Impression  fausse " 

From  chansons  pour  elle  ....  " 

From  epigrammes " 


Jean  Richepin  (1849-         ) 
The  death  of  the  gods 


W.  J.  Robertson 


PAGE 

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197 
197 
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205 

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222 

223 
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225 


229 
230 
230 
232 

233 
234 
235 


xii  CONTENTS 

AUTHOR  AND  TITLE  TRANSLATED   BY  PACK 

Guy  de  Maupass-ant  (i  850-1 893) 

Desires W.  J.  Robertson    .     .     .     227 

From  the  French 

Revenants Robert  Bridges      .     .     .     228 

Arthur  Rimbaxjd  (1854-1891) 

Sensation Jelhro  Bithell  ....     229 

Albert  Sam.\in  (1858-1900) 

Music  on  the  waters Jelhro  Bithell 

Pannyra  of  the  Golden  Heel     .     .      J.  E.  Flecker 

Summer  Hours Jelhro  Bithell 

Autumn "  " 

Eventide 

Sleepless  night "  " 

Your  memory " 

Remy  de  Gourmont  (1858-1915) 

Hair Jethro  Bithell  ....     235 

GusTAVE  Kahn  (1859-         ) 

I  dreamed  of  a  cruel  lad.      .     .     .      Jethro  Bithell  ....  236 

My  Own "         "  ....  237 

Homage    .     . "  "  ....  237 

The  three  girls  on  the  seashore     .     .       "         "  ....  238 

Jules  Laforgue  (i  860-1887) 

For  the  book  of  love        ....      Jethro  Bithell  ....     239 

Henri  DE  Regnier  (1864-         ) 

Night Semnas  O' Sullivan     .     .  239 

Nay,  sweet,  my  grief  and  I  .     .     .  "         "        ....  240 

Stanzas "  "         ....  241 

The  gate  of  the  armies  .     .     .  J.  E.  Flecker    ....  241 

Francis  Viele-Griffin  (1864-        ) 

Now  the  sweet  eves  are  withered        Jethro  Bithell  ....     242 

Alfred  Mortier  (1865-        ) 

I  ask  you,  love Jethro  Bithell    ....     243 

Aktdre  Spire  (1868-         ) 

Lonely Jethro  Bithell  ....  244 

Spring o     .      "  "  ....  245 

To  my  books "  "  ....  245 

Nudities "         "  ....  247 

Francis  Jammes  (1868-        ) 

Amsterdam J ethro  Bithell     ....     248 

Prayer  to  go  to  Paradise  with  the 

asses "  "       ....     250 


Love 


251 


CONTENTS  xiii 

AUTHOR  AND  TITLE                                            TRANSLATED  BY  PAGE 

The  cricket's  song        Jethro  BUhell  .     .     .     .  251 

Paul  Fort  (1872-        ) 

A  baliad  of  the  season "           "       ....  253 

A  ballad  of  the  night        "           "       ....  253 

Philomel J.  E.  Flecker   ....  254 

Bell  of  dawn Ludwig  Lewisohn      .     .  255 

Pan  and  the  cherries Jetliro  Bithell  .     .     .     .  256 

The  sailor's  song "           "       ....  256 

Charles  Guerin  (i 873-1907) 

Partings Jetliro  Bithell  ....  257 

Vain  vows "            "        ....  257 

The  journey's  end        "           "       ....  258 

The  delicate  evening "           "       ....  259 

Charles  Vildrac  (1882-        ) 

After  midnight Jethro  Bithell   ....  250 

Cf  mmentary "          "        ....  269 

An  l!in "         "        ....  263 

Georges  Duhamel 

The  beggar Jethro  Bithell   ....  265 

Jules  Romans  (1885-        ) 

The  barracks Jethro  Bithell   ....  268 

The  church "         "        ....  373 


NOTE 

This  anthology  is  more  correctly  a  compilation  of  transla- 
tions selected  primarily  for  those  who  have  no  means  of 
enjoying  French  poetry  in  the  original.  Expanded  from  a 
collection  gathered  originally  for  personal  pleasure,  it  is  my 
belief  that  most  of  the  selections  here  included  are  of  high 
poetical  merit,  fully  capable  of  standing  squarely  on  their 
own  feet  as  adequate  renderings  of  the  original.  Where  this 
claim  seems  extravagant,  the  reader  is  asked  to  accept  the 
selection  as  one  of  several  that  were  included  to  give  the 
volume  the  proper  proportions  that  an  anthology  such  as  this 
must  possess.  In  such  cases,  it  was  deemed  better  that  our 
poet  be  inadequately  represented  than  not  at  all.  A  transla- 
tion fairly  literal,  though  lacking  in  the  lyrical  quality  we 
should  desire,  is,  at  any  rate,  an  aid  to  the  appreciation  of 
the  original,  and  we  hope  that  these  versions  will  lead  some 
readers  back  to  their  source. 

Acknowledgments  are  due  to  many  publishers  for  their 
generous  authorizations  in  the  use  of  copyrighted  material. 
In  particular  I  wish  to  acknowledge  my  indebtedness  to : 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  the  selections  from  "The  Poems 
of  George  Meredith"  and  "The  Hermit  of  Carmel"  by  George 
Santayana;  B.  W.  Huebsch  for  "The  Bell  of  Dawn"  by  Paul 
Fort  from  "The  Poets  of  Modern  France"  by  Ludwig  Lew- 
isohn;  Doubleday,  Page  and  Company  for  selections  from 
"The  Collected  Poems  of  James  Elroy  Flecker";  Alfred 
Knopf  for  translations  from  "Lustra"  by  Ezra  Pound ;  John 
Lane  and  Com.pany  for  many  translations  by  Arthur  Symons 
and  Ernest  Dowson ;  Brentano's  for  Lafcadio  Hearn's  trans- 
lation of  "Clarimonde"  by  Theophile  Gautier;  The  Walter 
Scott  Publishing  Company  for  selections  from  "Contemporary 
French    Poetry"  by  Jethro   Bithell;    Thomas    Bird   Mosher 

XV 


XVI 


NOTE 


for  innumerable  selections  taken  from  "The  Bibelot,"  which 
has  proved  a  veritable  treasure-house  for  material  unobtain- 
able elsewhere. 

Albert  Boni. 

August  2"],  1919- 
"High  Orchard," 
Westfield,  N.  J. 


THE  MODERN  BOOK  OF  FRENCH  VERSE 


MODERN   BOOK  OF   FRENCH 

VERSE 

GUILLAUME    DE    POITIERS     (1071-?) 
Behold  the  Meads 

BEHOLD,  the  meads  are  green  again. 
The  orchard-bloom  is  seen  again, 
Of  sky  and  stream  the  mien  again 

Is  mild,  is  bright! 
Now  should  each  heart  that  loves  obtain 
Its  own  delight. 

But  I  will  say  no  ill  of  Love, 
However  slight  my  guerdon  prove: 
Repining  doth  not  me  behove: 

And  yet — to  know 
How  lightly  she  I  fain  would  move 

Might  bliss  bestow  1 

There  are  who  hold  my  folly  great. 
Because  with  little  hope  I  wait; 
But  one  old  saw  doth  animate 

And  me  assure: 
Their  hearts  are  high,  their  might  is  great, 

Who  will  endure. 

(H.  W,  Preston.) 


2  THE  CHANSON  DE  ROLAND 

FROM   THE   CHANSON  DE  ROLAND    (XHth  CENT.) 

Death  of  Archbishop  Turpin 

THE  archbishop,  whom  God  loved  in  high  degree, 
Beheld  his  wounds  all  bleeding  fresh  and  free; 
And  then  his  cheek  more  ghastly  grew  and  wan, 
And  a  faint  shudder  through  his  members  ran. 
Upon  the  battle-field  his  knee  was  bent; 
Brave  Roland  saw,  and  to  his  succour  went. 
Straightway  his  helmet  from  his  brow  unlaced. 
And  tore  the  shining  haubert  from  his  breast; 
Then  raising  in  his  arms  the  man  of  God, 
Gently  he  laid  him  on  the  verdant  sod. 
"Rest,  Sire,"  he  cried,— "for  rest  thy  suflFering  needs." 
The  priest  replied,  "Think  but  of  warlike  deeds! 
The  field  is  ours;  well  may  we  boast  this  strife! 
But  death  steals  on,— there  is  no  hope  of  life; 
In  paradise,  where  the  almoners  live  again. 
There  are  our  couches  spread,— 'there  shall  we  rest  from 

pain." 
Sore  Roland  grieved;  nor  marvel  I,  alas! 
That  thrice  he  swooned  upon  the  thick  green  grass. 
When  he  revived,  with  a  loud  voice  cried  he, 
"O  Heavenly  Father!    Holy  Saint  Marie! 
Why  lingers  death  to  lay  me  in  my  grave? 
Beloved  France!  how  have  the  good  and  brave 
Been  torn  from  thee  and  left  thee  weak  and  poor!" 
Then  thoughts  of  Aude,  his  lady-love,  came  o'er 
His  spirit,  and  he  whispered  soft  and  slow, 
"My  gentle  friend! — what  parting  full  of  woe! 
Never  so  true  a  liegeman  shalt  thou  see; — 
Whate'er  my  fate,  Christ's  benison  on  thee! 
Christ,  who  did  save  from  realms  of  woe  beneath 
The  Hebrew  prophets  from  the  second  death." 
Then  to  the  paladins,  whom  well  he  knew, 
He  went,  and  one  by  one  unaided  drew 
To  Turpin's  side,  well  skilled  in  ghostly  lore;— 


THE  CHANSON  DE  ROLAND  : 

No  heart  had  he  to  smile, — but,  weeping  sore, 

He  blessed  them  in  God's  name,  with  faith  that  he 

Would  soon  vouchsafe  to  them  a  glad  eternity. 

The  archbishop,  then, — on  whom  God's  benison  rest  I— 

Exhausted,  bowed  his  head  upon  his  breast; — 

His  mouth  was  full  of  dust  and  clotted  gore. 

And  many  a  wound  his  swollen  visage  bore. 

Slow  beats  his  heart, — his  panting  bosom  heaves, — 

Death  comes  apace, — no  hope  of  cure  relieves. 

Towards  heaven  he  raised  his  dying  hands  and  prayed 

That  God,  who  for  our  sins  was  mortal  made, — 

Born  of  the  Virgin, — scorned  and  crucified, — 

In  paradise  would  place  him  by  his  side. 

Then  Turpin  died  in  service  of  Charlon, 
In  battle  great  and  eke  great  orison; 
'Gainst  Pagan  host  alway  strong  champion; — 
God  grant  to  him  his  holy  benison ! 

(H.  W.  Longfellow.) 


MARCABRUN  (XIITH  CENTURY) 

At  the  Fountain 

A  FOUNT  there  is,  doth  overfling 
Green  turf  and  garden  walks;  in  spring 
A  glory  of  white  blossoming 
Shines  underneath  its  guardian  tree; 
And  new-come  birds  old  music  sing; 
And  there,  alone  and  sorrowing, 
I  found  a  maid  I  could  not  cheer,— 

Of  beauty  meet  to  be  adored, 

The  daughter  of  the  castle's  lord; 

Methought  the  melody  outpour'd 

By  all  the  birds  unceasingly, 

The  season  sweet,  the  verdant  sward, 


MARCABRUN 

Might  gladden  her,  and  eke  my  word 
Her  grief  dismiss,  would  she  but  hear. 

Her  tears  into  the  fountain  fell; 
With  sorry  sighs  her  heart  did  swell; 
"O  Jezus,  King  invisible!" 
She  cried, — "of  thee  is  my  distress! 
Through  thy  deep  wrong  bereft  I  dwell: 
Earth's  best  have  bidden  us  farewell, 
On  thee  at  thine  own  shrine  to  wait. 

"And  my  true  Love  is  also  gone, 
The  free,  fair,  gentle,  valiant  One; 
So  what  can  I  but  make  my  moan, 
And  how  the  sad  desire  suppress 
That  Louis'  name  were  here  unknown, 
The  prayers,  the  mandates,  all  undone 
Whereby  I  am  made  desolate?" 

Soon  as  I  heard  this  plaintive  cry, 
Moving  the  limpid  wave  anigh, 
"Weep  not,  fair  maid !     So  piteously. 
Nor  waste  thy  roses!"  thus  I  cried, — 
"Neither  despair,  for  He  is  by 
Who  brought  this  leafy  greenery. 
And  He  will  give  thee  joy  one  day." 

"Seigneur !    I  well  believe,"  she  said, — 

"Of  God  I  shall  be  comforted 

In  yonder  world  when  I  am  dead; 

And  many  a  sinful  soul  beside; — 

But  now  hath  He  prohibited 

My  chief  delight     I  bow  my  head, — 

But  heaven  is  very  far  away." 

(H.  W.  Preston.) 


BERNARD  DE  VENTADOUR 

BERNARD    DE    VENTADOUR    (1130-?) 

No  Marvel  Is  It 

NO  marvel  is  it  if  I  sing 
Better  than  other  minstrels  all: 
For  more  than  they  I  am  Love's  thrall, 
And  all  myself  therein  I  fling, — 
Knowledge  and  sense,  body  and  soul, 
And  whatso  power  I  have  beside; 
The  rein  that  doth  my  being  guide 
Impels  me  to  this  only  goal. 

His  heart  is  dead  whence  did  not  spring 

Love's  odour,  sweet  and  magical; 

His  life  doth  ever  on  him  pall 

Who  knoweth  not  that  blessed  thing; 

Yea!  God,  who  doth  my  life  control. 

Were  cruel  did  he  bid  me  bide 

A  month,  or  even  a  day,  denied 

The  love  whose  rapture  I  extol. 

How  keen,  how  exquisite  the  sting 

Of  that  sweet  odour!     At  its  call 

An  hundred  times  a  day  I  fall 

And  faint,  an  hundred  rise  and  sing. 

So  fair  the  semblance  of  my  dole, 

'Tis  lovelier  than  another's  pride: 

If  such  the  ill  doth  me  betide, 

Good  hap  were  more  than  I  could  thole. 

Yet  haste,  kind  heaven !  the  sundering 

True  swains   from  false,  great  hearts  from  small  1 

The  traitor  in  the  dust  bid  crawl ! 

The  faithless  to   confession  bring! 

Ah!  if  I  were  the  master  sole 

Of  all  earth's  treasures  multiplied, 

To  see  my  Lady  satisfied 

Of  my  pure  faith,  I'd  give  the  whole. 

(H.  W.  Preston.) 


MARIE  DE  FRANCE 

MARIE  DE  FRANCE   (XIIITH  CENTURY) 
Song  from  Chartivel 

HATH  any  loved  you  well,  down  there, 
Summer  or  winter  through? 
Dov/n  there,  have  you  found  any  fair 

Laid  in  the  grave  with  you? 
Is  death's  long  kiss  a  richer  kiss 

Than  mine  was  wont  to  be — 
Or  have  you  gone  to  some  far  bliss 
And  quite  forgotten  me? 


What  soft  enamouring  of  sleep 

Hath  you  in  some  soft  way? 
What  charmed  death  holdeth  you  with  deep 

Strange  lure  by  night  and  day? 
A  little  space  below  the  grass. 

Out  of  the  sun  and  shade; 
But  worlds  away  from  me,  alas, 

Down  there  where  you  are  laid. 


My  bright  is  vaved  and  wasted  gold, 

What  is  it  now  to  thee — 
Whether  the  rose-red  life  I  hold 

Or  white  death  holdeth  me? 
Down  there  you  love  the  grave's  own  green, 

And  evermore  you  rave 
Of  some  sweet  seraph  you  have  seen 

Or  dreamt  of  in  the  grave. 

There  you  shall  lie  as  you  have  lain. 

Though  in  the  world  above, 
Another  live  your  life  again, 

Loving  again  your  love: 
Is  it  not  sweet  beneath  the  palm? 


MARIE  DE  FRANCE  7. 

Is  it  not  warm  day  rife 
With  some  long  mystic  golden  calm 
Better  than  love  and  life? 

The  broad  quaint  odorous  leaves  like  hands 

Weaving  the  fair  day  through, 
Weave  sleep  no  burnished  bird  withstands. 

While  death  weaves  sleep  for  you; 
And  many  a  strange  rich  breathing  sound 

Ravishes  morn  and  noon : 
And  in  that  place  you  must  have  found 

Death  a  delicious  swoon — 

Hold  me  no  longer  for  a  word 

I  used  to  say  or  sing: 
Ah,  long  ago  you  must  have  heard 

So  many  a  sweeter  thing: 
For  rich  earth  must  have  reached  your  heart 

And  turned  the  faith  to  flowers; 
And  warm  wind  stolen,  part  by  part, 

Your  soul  through  faithless  hours. 

And  many  a  soft  seed  must  have  won 

Soil  of  some  yielding  thought. 
To  bring  a  bloom  up  to  the  sun 

That  else  had  ne'er  been  brought; 
And,  doubtless,  many  a  passionate  hue 

Hath  made  that  place  more  fair. 
Making  some  passionate  part  of  you 

Faithless  to  me  down  there. 

(A.  O'Shaughnessy.) 


Would  I  Might  Go  Far  Over  Sea 

WOULD   I   might  go   far  over  sea. 
My  Love,  or  high  above  the  air, 
And  come  to  land  or  heaven  with  thee, 


8  MARIE  DE  FRANCE 

Where  no  law  is,  and  none  shall  be. 
Against  beholding  the  most  rare 
Strange  beauty  that  thou  hast  for  me. 

Alas,  for,  in  this  bitter  land, 
Full  many  a- written  curse  doth  stand 
Against  the  kiss  thy  lips  should  bear; 
Against  the  sweet  gift  of  thy  hands; 
Against  the  knowing  that  thou  art  fair, 
And  too  fond  loving  of  thy  hair. 

(A.  O'Shaughnessy.) 


THE  VIDAME  DE  CHARTRES   (12-?) 

Jpril 

WHEN  the  fields  catch  flower 
And  the  underwood  is  green. 
And  from  bower  unto  bower 

The  songs  of  the  birds  begin, 

I  sing  with  sighing  between. 
When  I  laugh  and  sing, 

I  am  heavy  at  heart  for  my  sin; 
I  am  sad  in  the  spring 

For  my  love  that  I  shall  not  win. 
For  a  foolish  thing. 


This  profit  I  have  of  my  woe, 

That  1  know,  as  I  sing, 
I  know  he  will  needs  have  it  so 

W^ho  is  master  and  king, 

Who  is  lord  of  the  spirit  of  spring. 
I  will  serve  her  and  will  not  spare 

Till  her  pity  awake, 


THE  VIDAME  DE  CHARTRES 

Who  is  good,  who  is  pure,  who  is  fair, 

Even  her  for  whose  sake 
Love  hath  ta'en  me  and  slain  unaware. 


0  my  lord,  O  love, 

I  have  laid  my  life  at  thy  feet; 
Have  thy  will  thereof, 
Do  as  it  please  thee  with  it, 
For  what  shall  please  thee  is  sweet. 

1  am  come  unto  thee 

To  do  thee  service,  O  Love; 
Yet  cannot  I  see 

Thou  wilt  take  any  pity  thereof. 
Any  mercy  on  me. 


But  the  grace  I  have  long  time  sought 

Comes  never  in  sight, 
If  in  her  it  abideth  not. 

Through  thy  mercy  and  might, 

Whose  heart  is  the  world's  delight. 
Thou  hast  sworn  without  fail  I  shall  die, 

For  my  heart  is  set 
On  what   hurts   me,   I   wot   not  why. 

But  cannot  forget 
What  I  love,  what  I  sing  for  and  sigh. 


She  is  worthy  of  praise. 

For   this    grief    of   her   giving   is    worth 
All  the  joy  of  my  days 

That  lie  between  death's  day  and  birth. 

All    the    lordship    of    things    upon    earth. 
Nay,    what    have    I    said? 

I  would  not  be  glad  if  I  could ; 
My   dream    and    my   dread 

Are   of   her,   and    for   her   sake   I   would 
That  my  life  were  fled. 


10  THE  VIDAME  D£  CHARTRES 

Lo,  sweet,  if  I  durst  not  pray  to  you. 

Then  were   I  dead; 
If  I  sang  not  a  little  to  say  to  you, 

(Could  it  be  said) 

O  my  love,  how  my  heart  would  be  fed ; 
Ah,  sweet,  who  hast  hold  of  my  heart. 

For  thy  love's  sake  I  live, 
Do  but  tell  me,  ere  either  depart. 

What  a  lover  may  give 
For  a  woman  so  fair  as  thou  art. 

The  lovers   that  disbelieve. 
False  rumors  shall  grieve 
And   evil-speaking   shall   part 

(Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.) 


GUILLAUME  DE  LORRIS   (1230-?) 
From  the  Romaunt  of  the  Rose 

WITHIN  my  twentie  yeere  of  age, 
When  that  love  taketh  his  courage 
Of  younge  folke,  I  wente  soone 
To  bed,  as  I  was  wont  to  doone: 
And  fast  I  slept:  and  in  sleeping. 
Me  mette  such  a  swevening,* 
That  liked  me  wondrous  wele: 
But  in  that  sweven  is  never  a  dele  * 
That  it  n'is*  afterward  befall, 
Right  as  this  dreame  well  tell  us  all. 

Now  this  dreame  woll  I  rime  aright, 
To  make  your  heartes  gay  and  light: 
For  love  it  prayeth,  and  also 
Commaundeth  me,  that  it  be  so. 

And   if  there  any  aske   me, 

*  Dreaming. 

■  Never  a  bit,   nothing  at  alL 

■  For  ne   is,    is   not. 


GUILLAUME  DE  LORRIS  11 

Whether  that  it  be  he  or  she, 
How  this  booke  which  is  here 
Shall  hatte,'  that  I  rede"  you  here: 
It  is  the  Romaunt  of  the  Rose, 
In  which  all  the  art  of  love  I  close. 
The  matter  faire  is  of  to  make: 
God  graunt  me  in  gree '  that  she  it  take 
For  whom  that  it  begonnen  '  is : 
And  that  is  she  that  hath  ywis  * 
So  mokel  prise,'  and  thereto  she 
So  worthie  is  beloved  to  be, 
That  she  wel  ought,  of  prise  and  right, 
Be  cleped  Rose  of  everie  wight. 
That  it  was  May  me  thoughte  tho," 
It  is  five  yere  or  more  ago, 
That  it  was  May,  thus  dreamed  rae, 
In  time  of  love  and  jolitie. 
That  all   thing  ginneth   waxen  gay: 
For  there  is  neither  buske "  nor  hay 
In  May,  that  it  n'ill "  shrouded  bene, 
And  it  with  newe  leves  wrene:" 
These  woodes  eke  recoveren  grene, 
That  drie  in  winter  ben  to  sene. 
And  the  erth  waxeth  proud  withall. 
For  swote"  dewes  that  on  it  fall. 
And  the  poore  estate  forget. 
In  which  that  winter  had  it  set: 
And  than "  become  the  ground  so  proude, 
That  it  wol   have   a   newe   shroude. 
And  maketh  so  queint  his  robe  and  faire, 
That  it  had  hewes  an  hundred  paire, 

*  Be    named. 

*  Advise,    explain. 

•  Pleasure,  good  will ;  to  take  in  gree,  to  take  in  good  part. 
^  Begun. 

'  Certainly. 

•  Much  praise. 
'0  Then. 

"  Bush. 

**For  nc  ■will,  will  not. 

"  Covered. 

"  Sweet 

»  Then. 


12  GUILLAUME  DE  LORRIS 

Of  grasse  and  floures,  of  Inde  and  Pers, 
And  many  hewes  full  divers : 
That  is  the  robe   I  mean  ywis, 
Through  which  the  ground  to  praisen  is. 
The  birdes,  that  han  left  hir '^  song, 
While  they  han  suffred  cold   full  strong, 
In  wethers  grille,"  and  derke  to  sight, 
Ben  in    May,   for   the    sunne   bright, 
So  glad,  that  they  shew,  in  singing, 
That  in  hir  heart  is  such  liking. 
That  they  mote  cingen  and  ben  light: 
Than  doth  the  nightingale  her  might 
To  maken  noyse   and   singen  blithe: 
Than  is  blisfull  many  a  sithe,^' 
The  chelaundre,"  and  the  popingaye: 
Than   younge    folke    entenden"'   aye, 
For  to  ben  gay  and  amorous, 
The  time  is  then  so  savorous."' 

Harde  is  his  heart  that  loveth  nought 
In  May,  whan  all  this  mirth  is  wrought, 
Whan  he  may  on  these  braunches  here 
The  smalle  birdes   singeir  clere 
Hir  blisfull  swete  song  piteous, 
And  in  this  season  delitous : 
When  love  affirmeth  all  thing. 
Me  thought  one  night,  in  my  sleeping 
Right  in  my  bed   full   readyly, 
That  it  was  by  the  morrow  "^  early. 
And  up  I  rose,  and  gan  me  cloth, 
Anone  I  wysshe  ^  mine  hondes  "^  both, 
A   silver   needle    forth   I   drow 
Out  of  an  aguiler''*  queint  ynow, 

"  Their. 

"  Dreadful,  horrible. 

"  Time. 

"  Goldfinch. 

=0  Listen  to.  attend. 

^'  Sweet,  pleasant. 

"'  Hear. 

2'  In  the  morning. 

"  Washed. 

"  Hands. 

2«  Needle-case. 


23 


GUILLAUME  DE  LORRIS  13 

And  gan  this  needle  thread  anone. 

For  out  of  towne  me  list  to  gone. 

The  sound  of  birdes  for  to  heare 

That  on  the  buskes  singen  cleare, 

In  the  swete  season  that  lefe  is: 

With  a  thred  basting  my  slevis, 

Alone  I  went  in  my  playing, 

The  smal  foules  song  hearkening, 

That  payned  hem"  full  many  a  paire 

To  sing  on  bowes  blossomed  faire: 

Jolife"'  and  gay,  full  of  gladnesse, 

Toward  a  river  gan  I  me  dresse,'* 

That  I  heard  renne ""  faste  by, 

For   fairer  playeng"  none  saw   I 

Than  playen  me  by  the  rivere: 

For  from  an  hill,  that   stood  there  nere, 

Come  downe  the  stream  full  stiffe  and  bold, 

Clere  was  the  water,  and  as  cold 

As  any  well  is,  sooth  to  saine,'^ 

And  somedele  lasse"  it  was  than   Saine, 

But  it  was   straiter,   weleaway, 

And  never   saw  I,  ere  that  day, 

The  water  that  so  wele  liked  me. 

And  wonder"  glad   was  I  to  se 

That  lusty"  place,  and  that  rivere: 

And  with  that  water,  that  ran  so  clere, 

My  face  I  wysshe,  tho  saw   I  wele 

The  bottome  ypaved  °°  everidele  " 

With  gravel,  full  of  stones  shene : " 

The  meadowes  softe,  sote,'"  and  grene, 

Beet  right  upon  the  water  side : 

"  Pained  themselves,  that  is,  took  great  pains  or  trouble. 

«»  Joyful. 

"  To  address,  turn  towards. 

*o  Run. 

•'  Enjoyment,    enjoying, 

"To    say    the    truth. 

•*  Somewhat   less. 

•*  Wonderfully,   very. 

•»  Pleasant. 

••  Paved. 

"  Entirely,   every   part. 

••  Bright,   beautiful. 

••  Sweet. 


14  GUILLAUME  DE  LORRIS 

Full  clere  was  than  the  morowe  tide, 
And  full  attempre"  out  of  drede:** 
Tho  gan  I  walken  thorow  the  mede, 
Downward  aye,  in  my  playing, 
The  rivers  side  coosting. 


(Chaucer.) 


JEAN    FROISSART    (1337-1404) 
Rondel 

LOVE,   love,   what  wilt  thou  with   this   heart  of   mine? 
Naught  see  I  fixed  or  sure  in  thee! 
I  do  not  know  thee,— nor  what  deeds  are  thine: 
Love,  love,   what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart  of  mine? 
Naught  see  I  fixed  or  sure  in  thee! 

Shall  I  be  mute,  or  vows  with  prayers  combine? 

Ye  who  are  blessed  in  loving,  tell  it  me: 
Love,  love,  what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart  of  mine? 

Naught   see   I   permanent  or   sure  in   thee! 

(H.  W.  Longfellow.) 


ALAIN  CH ARTIER   (1386-1449) 
From  La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Mercy 

THE  hordes  were  spred  in  right  little  space, 
The  ladies   sat  each  as  hem*  seemed  best, 
There  were  no  deadly  seruants  in  the  place, 

But  chosen  men,  right  of  the  goodliest: 
And  some  there  were,  perauenture  most  freshest, 
That  saw  their  judges  full  demure, 

*"  Temperate. 

<i  Without   doubt. 

'  Them. 


ALAIN  CHARTIER  15 

Without  semblaunt,  either  to  most  or  lest, 
Notwithstanding  they  had  hem  vnder  cure. 

Emong  all  other,  one  I  gan  espy, 

Which  in  great  thouglit  ful  often  came  and  went, 
As    one   that    had    been    rauished    vtterly: 

In  his  language  not  greatly  dilligent. 
His  countenance  he  kept  with  great  turment, 

But  his  desire  farre  passed  his  reason. 
For  euer  his  eye  went  after  his  entent, 

Full  many  a  time,  whan  it  was  no  season. 

To  make  chere  sore  himselfe  he  pained. 

And  outwardly  he  fained  great  gladnesse, 
To  sing  also  by  force  he  was  constrained, 

For  no  pleasaunce,  but  very  shamefastnesse: 
For  the  complaint  of  his  most  heauinesse 

Came  to  his  voice,  alway  without  request. 
Like  as  the  soune  of  birdes  doth  expresse. 

Whan  they  sing  loud  in  frithe  or  in  forrest 

Other  there  were  that  serued  in  the  hall, 

But  none  like  him,  as  after  mine  aduise,' 
For  he  was  pale,  and  somwhat  lean  withall, 

His   speech   also  trembled   in    fearful   wise, 
And  euer  alone,  but  whan  he  did  seruise. 

All  blacke  he  ware,  and  no  deuise  but  plain: 
Me  thought  by  him,  as  my  wit  could  suffise, 

His  herte  was  nothing  in  his  own  demain.' 

To  feast  hem  all  he  did  his  dilligence. 

And  well  he  coud,  right  as  it  seemed  me. 
But  euermore,  whan  he  was  in  presence, 

His  chere  was  done,  it  nolde*  none  other  be: 
His  schoolemaister  had  such  aucthorite. 

That,  all  the  while  he  bode  still  in  the  place, 
Speake  coud  he  not,  but  upon  her  beautie 

He  looked  still  with  a  right  pitous  face. 

*  Observation. 
'  Control. 

*  For  ne  wold,  would  not. 


16  ALAIN  CHARTIER 

With  that  his  head  he  tourned  at  the  last 

For  to  behold  the  ladies  euerichone,' 
But  euer  in  one  he  set  his  eye  stedfast 

On  her  which  his  thought  was  most  vpon, 
For   of   his   eyen  the   shot"  I  knew   anone, 

Which  fearful  was,  with  right  humble  requests: 
Than  to  my  self  I  said,  by  God  alone, 

Such  one  was  I,   or  that  I   saw  these  jests. 

Out  of  the  prease  he  went  full  easely 

To  make  stable  his  heauie  countenance. 
And   wote   ye   well,    he   sighed    wonderly 

For   his    sorrowes   and   wofull   remembrance: 
Than  in  himselfe  he  made  his  ordinance, 

And   forthwithall  came  to  bring  in  the  messe, 
But   for   to   judge   his   most   wofull    pennance, 

God  wote  it  was  a  pitous   entremesse/ 

After  dinner   anon  they  hem  auanced 

To  daunce  aboue  the   folke  euerichone, 
And   forthwithall,  this  heauy  man  he  daunced, 

Somtime  with  twain,  and  scmtime  with  one: 
Unto   hem   all   his   chere   was   after   one. 

Now   here,   now   there,   as    fell   by   auenture. 
But  euer  among  he  drew  to  her  alone 

Which  he  most  dread'  of  lining  creature. 

To  mine  aduise  good  was  his  purueiance," 

Whan  he  her  chose  to  his  maistresse  alone. 
If  that  her  herte  were  set  to  his  pleasance, 

As  much  as  was  her  beauteous  person: 
For  who  so  euer  setteth  his  trust  vpon 

The  report  of  the  eyen,   withouten  more, 
He  might  be  dead,  and  grauen  vnder  stone, 

Or  euer  he  should  his  hertes  ease  restore. 

'  Every  one. 

•  Glance. 

'  Entremet,  a  dish  served  between  the  courses. 

•  Feared. 

•  Foresight.   pro-/idence. 


ALAIN  CHARTIER  17 


.  1* 


In  her  failed  nothing  that  I  coud  gesse, 

One  wise  nor  other,  priuie  nor  apert,* 
A  garrison  she  was  of  all  goodlinesse, 

To  make  a  frontier  for  a  louers  herte: 
Right   yong    and    fresh,   a   woman    full   couert. 

Assured   wele   of   port,  and   eke   of   chere, 
Wele  at  her  ease  withouten  wo  or  smert, 

All  vnderneath  the  standerd  of  dangere. 

To  see  the  feast  it  wearied  me  full  sore, 

For  heauy  joy  doth  sore  the  herte  trauaile: 
Out   of   the   prease   I   me  withdrow   therefore, 

And  set  me  downe  alone  behind  a  traile,^ 
Full  of  leaues,  to  see  a  great  meruaile, 

With  greene  wreaths  ybounden  wonderly. 
The  leaues  were  so  thicke  withouten  faile. 

That  throughout  no  man  might  me  espy. 

To  this  lady  he  came  full  courtesly, 

Whan  he  thought  time  to  dance  with  her  a  trace, 
Set  in  an  herber, "  made  full  pleasantly, 

They   rested   hem   fro   thens   but   a  little  space: 
Nigh  hem  were  none  of  a  certain  compace," 

But  onely  they,  as  farre  as  I  coud  see: 
Saue  the  traile,  there  I  had  chose  my  place, 

There  was  no  more  between  hem  two  and  me. 

I  heard  the  louer  sighing  wonder  sore, 

For  aye  the  more  the  sorer  it  him  sought, 
His  inward  paine  he  coud  not  keepe  in  store, 

Nor  for  to  speake  so  bardie  was  he  nought. 
His  leech  was  nere,  the  greater  was  his  thoght, 

He  mused  sore  to  conquer  his  desire: 
For  no  man  may  to  more  pennance  be  broght 

Than  in  his  heat  to  bring  him  to  the  fire. 


'0  Secret  nor  public. 

"  Trellis. 

"  Turn,  or  measure. 

"  Arbour. 

"  Compass,  circle,  distance. 


» 


18  ALAIN  CHARTIER 

The  herte  began  to  swell  within  his  chest, 

So  sore  strained  for  anguish  and  for  paine, 
That  all  to  peaces  almost  it  to  brest, 

Whan  both  at  ones  so  sore  it  did  constraine, 
Desire  was  bold,  but  shame  it  gan  refraine, 

That  one  was  large,  the  other  was  full  close: 
No   little  charge  was  laid  on   him,  certaine, 

To  keepe  such  werre,  and  haue  so  many  fose. 

Full  oftentimes  to  speak  himself  he  pained, 

But  shamefastnesse  and  drede  said  euer  nay. 
Yet  at  the  last,  so  sore  he  was  constrained. 

Whan  he  full  long  had  put  it  in  delay, 
To  his  lady  right  thus  than  gan  he  saj% 

With  dredeful  voice,  weeping,  half  in  a  rage: 
"For  me  was  purueyed  an  vnhappy  day, 

Whan  I  first  had  a  sight  of  your  visage!" 

(Chaucer.) 


CHARLES  D'ORLEANS  (1391-1465) 
Rondel 

(To  his  mistress,  to  succor  his  heart  that  is  beleaguered  by 

jealousy.) 

STRENGTHEN,  my  Love,  this  castle  of   my  heart. 
And  with  some  store  of  pleasure  give  me  aid, 
For  jealousy,  with  all  them  of  his  part, 

Strong  siege  about  the  weary  tower  has  laid. 

Nay,  if  to  break  his  bands  thou  art  afraid. 
Too  weak  to  make  his  cruel  force  depart, 
Strengthen  at  least  this  castle  of  my  heart, 

And  with  some  store  of  pleasure  give  me  aid. 
Nay,  let  not  jealousy,  for  all  his  art 

Be  master,  and  the  tower  in  ruin  laid, 

That  still,  ah.  Love,  thy  gracious  rule  obeyed. 


CHARLES  D'ORLEANS  19 

Advance,  and  give  me  succor  of  thy  part; 
Strengthen,  my  Love,  this  castle  of  my  heart. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 

Springs 

(The  New-liveried  year.— Sir  Henry  Woiion) 

THE  year  has  changed  his  mantle  cold 
Of  wind,  of  rain,  of  bitter  air; 
And  he  goes  clad  in  cloth  of  gold, 

Of  laughing  suns  and  season  fair; 
No  bird  or  beast  of  wood  or  wold 
But  doth  with  cry  or  song  declare 
The  year  lays   down  his  mantle  cold. 
All   founts,  all   rivers,  seaward  rolled, 
The  pleasant  summer  livery  wear. 
With  silver  studs  on  broidered  vair; 
The  world  puts  off  its  raiment  old, 
The  year  lays  down  his  mantle  cold. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 

Alons  au  hois  le  may  cueillir 

WE'LL  to  the  woods  and  gather  may 
Fresh  from  the  footprints  of  the  rain; 
We'll  to  the  woods,  at  every  vein 
To  drink  the  spirit  of  the  day. 
The  winds  of  the  spring  are  out  at  play,^ 

The  needs  of  spring  in  heart  and  brain. 
We'll  to  the  woods  and  gather  may 
Fresh  from  the  footprints  of  the  rain. 

The  world's  too  near  her  end,  you  say?— 
Hark  to  the  blackbird's  mad  refrain. 
It  waits  for  her,  the  vast  Inane? — 

Then,  girls,  to  help  her  on  the  way 

We'll  to  the  woods  and  gather  may. 

(W.  E.  Henley.) 


20  CHARLES  D'ORLEANS 

Dieu  Qu'il  La  Fait 

GOD,  that  mad'st  her  well  regard  her. 
How  she  is  so  fair  and  bonny; 
For  the  great  charms  that  are  upon  her 
Ready  are  all  folk  to  reward  her. 

Who  could  part  him  from  her  borders 
When  spells  are  always  renewed  on  her? 
God,  that  mad'st  her  well  regard  her, 
How  she  is  so  fair  and  bonn}^ 

From  here  to  there  to  the  sea's  border, 
Dame  nor  damsel  there's  not  any 
Hath  of  perfect  charms  so  many. 
Thoughts  of  her  are  of  dream's  order: 
God,  that  mad'st  her  well  regard  her. 

(Ezra  Pound.) 

OLD  FRENCH 
John  of  Tours 


J 


OHN  of  Tours  is  back  with  peace. 
But  he  comes  home  ill  at  ease. 


"Good-morrow,  mother."    "Good-morrow,  son. 
Your  wife  has  borne  you  a  little  one." 

"Go  now,  mother,  go  before, 
Make  me  a  bed  upon  the  floor. 

"Very  low  your  feet  must  fall, 
That  my  wife  hear  not  at  all." 

As  it  neared  the  midnight  toll, 
John  of  Tours  give  up  his  soul. 

"Tell  me  now,  my  mother  dear, 
What's  the  crying  that  I  hear?" 


OLD  FRENCH  21 

"Daughter,  it's  the  children  wake 
Crying  with  their  teeth  that  ache." 

"Tell  me,  though,  my  mother  dear, 
What's  the  knocking  that  I  hear?" 

"Daughter,   it's  the   carpenter 
Mending    planks    upon    the    stair." 

"Tell  me,  too,   my  mother  dear, 
What  is   the  singing  that  I   hear?" 

"Daughter,   it's   the   priests   in   rows 
Going  round  about  our  house." 

"Tell  me  then,  my  mother,  my  dear. 
What's  the  dress  that  I   should  wear?" 

"Daughter,  any  reds  or  blues. 
But  the  black  is  most  in  use." 

"Nay,   but   say,  my   mother,   my  dear, 
Why  do  you  fall  weeping  here?" 

"Oh,  the  truth  must  be  said, — 
It's  that  John  of  Tours  is  dead." 

"Mother,   let   the   sexton  know 
That  the  grave  must  be  for  two; 

"Aye,  and  still  have  room  to  spare, 
For  you  must  shut  the  baby  there." 

(D.  G.  Rossetti.) 


22  ANONYMOUS 

NORMANDE 
Ballade  de  Marguerite 


I 


AM  weary  of  lying  within  the  chase 
When  the  knights  are  meeting  in  the  market-place. 


Nay,  go  not  thou  to  the  red-roofed  town 

Lest  the  hoofs  of  the  war-horse  tread  thee  down. 

But  I  would  not  go  where  the  Squires  ride, 
I  would  only  walk  by  my  Lady's  side. 

Alack,  and  alack,  thou  art  overbold, 
A  Forester's  son  may  not  eat  of  gold. 

Will  she  love  me  the  less  that  my  Father  is  seen 
Each  Martinmas  day  in  a  doublet  green? 

Perchance  she  is  sewing  at  tapestrie; 
Spindle  and  loom  are  not  meet  for  thee. 

Ah,  if  she  is  working  the  arras  bright 
I  might  ravel  the  threads  by  the  fire-light. 

Perchance  she  is  hunting  of  the  deer. 
How  could  you  follow  o'er  hill  and  mere? 

Ah,  if  she  is  riding  with  the  court, 

I  might  run  beside  her  and  wind  the  morte. 

Perchance  she   is  kneeling  in   St.  Denis, 
(On  her  soul  may  our  Lady  have  gramercy). 

Ah,  if  she  is  praying  in  lone  chapelle, 

I  might  swing  the  censer  and  ring  the  bell. 

Come  in,  my  son,  for  you  look  sae  pale, 
The  father  shall  fill  thee  a  stoup  of  ale. 


ANONYMOUS  23 

But  who  are  these  knights  in  bright  array? 
Is  it  a  pageant  the  rich  folks  play? 

'Tis  the  king  of  England  from  over  sea, 
Who  has  come  unto  visit  our  fair  countrie. 

But  why  does  the  curfew  toll  sae  low? 
And  why  do  the  mourners  walk  a-row? 

O  'tis  Hugh  of  Amiens,  my  sister's  son, 
Who  is  lying  stark,  for  his  day  is  done. 

Nay,  nay,  for  I  see  white  lilies  clear; 
It  is  no  strong  man  who  lies  on  the  bier. 

0  'tis  old  Dame  Jeannette  that  kept  the  hall, 

1  knew  she  would  die  at  the  autumn  fall. 

Dame  Jeannette  has  not  that  gold-brown  hair, 
Old  Jeannette  was  not  a  maiden  fair. 

O  'tis  none  of  our  kith  and  none  of  our  kin, 
(Her  soul  may  our  Lady  assoil  from  sin). 

But  I  hear  the  boy's  voice  chaunting  sweet, 
"Elle  est  morte,  la  Marguerite." 

Come  in,  my  son,  and  lie  on  the  bed, 
And  let  the  dead  folk  bury  their  dead. 

O  mother,  you  know  I  loved  her  true: 
O  mother,  hath  one  grave  room  for  two? 

(Oscar  Wilde.) 


24  ANONYMOUS 

BRETON 
The  Dole  of  the  King's  Daughter 

SEVEN  stars  in  the  still  water, 
And  seven  in  the  sky: 
Seven  sins  on  the  King's  daughter, 
Deep  in  her  soul  to  lie. 

Red  roses  are  at  her  feet, 

(Roses  are  red  in  her  red-gold  hair) 

And  O  where  her  bosom  and  girdle  meet 
Red  roses  are  hidden  there. 

Fair  is  the  knight  who  lieth  slain 

Amid  the  rush  and  reed, 
See  the  lean  fishes  that  are  fain 

Upon  dead  men  to  feed. 

Sweet  is  the  page  that  lieth  there, 

(Cloth  of  gold  is  goodly  prey), 
See  the  black  ravens  in  the  air, 

Black,  O  black  as  the  night  are  they. 

What  do  they  there  so  stark  and  dead? 

(There  is  blood  upon  her  hand) 
Why  are  the  lilies  flecked  with  red? 

(There  is  blood  in  the  river  sand). 

There  are  two  that  ride  from  the  south  and  east, 
And  two  from  the  north  and  west, 

For  the  black  raven  a  goodly  feast, 
For  the  King's  daughter  rest. 

There  is  one  man  who  loves  her  true, 
(Red,  O  red,  is  the  stain  of  gore), 

He  hath  duggen  a  grave  by  the  darksome  yew, 
(One  grave  will  do  for  four). 


ANONYMOUS  25 


No  moon  in  the  still  heaven, 
In  the  black  water  none, 

The  sins  in  her  soul  are  seven, 
The  sin  upon  his  is  one. 


(Oscar  Wilde.) 


MEDIEVAL  NORMAN  SONGS 


FAIR  is  her  body,  bright  her  eye. 
With  smiles  her  mouth  is  kind  to  me; 
Then,  think  no  evil,  this  is  she 
Whom  God  hath  made  my  only  joy. 

Between   the   earth   and   heaven   high 
There  is  no  maid  so  fair  as  she; 
The  beauty  of  her  sweet  body 
Doth  ever  fill  my  heart  with  joy. 

He  is  a  knave,  nor  do  I  lie. 
Who  loveth  her  not  heartily; 
The  grace  that  shines  from  her  body 
Giveth  to  lovers  all  great  joy. 

II 

Sad,  lost  in  thought,  and  mute  I  go: 
The  cause,  ah  me !  you  know  full  well : 
But   see   that   nought   thereof   you  tell, 
For  men  will  only  laugh  at  woe — 
For  men  will  only  laugh  at  woe. 

Ill 

Kiss  me  then,  my  merry  May, 
By  the  soul  of  love  I  pray! 
Prithee,  nay!     Tell,  tell  me  why? 


26  MEDIEVAL  NORMAN  SONGS 

If    with   you   I    sport    and   play. 

My  mother  will  be  vexed  to-day. 

Tell  me  why,  oh  tell  me  why 

IV 

Before  my  lady's  window  gay, 
The  little  birds  they  sing  all  day. 

The  lark,  the  mavis  and  the  dove; 
But  the  sweet  nightingale  of  May, 
She  whiles  the  silent  hours  away, 

Chanting  of  sorrow,  joy,  and  love. 


I  found  at  daybreak  yester  morn, 
Close  by  the  nest  where  she  was  born, 

A  tender  turtle  dove: 

Oha!  ohe!  ohesa,  hesa,  he! 

She   fluttered,   but   she   could   not  fly; 
I  heard,  but  would  not  heed  her  cry: 

She  had  not  learned  to  love: 

Oha!  ohe!  ohesa,  hesa,  he! 

Now  she  is  quiet  on  my  breast, 
And  from  her  new  and  living  nest 

She  doth  not  seek  to  rove: 

Oha!  ohe!  ohesa,  hesa,  he! 

VI 

This  month  of  May,  one  pleasant  eventide, 
I  heard  a  young  girl  singing  on  the  green ; 

1  came  upon  her  where  the  ways  divide, 
And  said :  "God  keep  you  maiden  from  all  teen. 

"Maiden,  the  God  of  love  you  keep  and  save. 
And  give  you  all  your  heart  desires,"  I  cried. 


MEDIEVAL  NORMAN  SONGS  27 

Then  she:  "Pray  tell  me,  gentle  sir  and  brave, 
Whither  you  wend  this  pleasant  eventide?" 

"To  you  I  come,  a  lover  leal  and  true, 
To  tell  you  all  my  hope  and  all  my  care; 

Your  love  alone  is  what  I  seek ;  than  you 
No  woman  ever  seemed  to  me  more  fair." 


VII 

In  this  merry  morn  of   May, 

When  as  the  year  grows  young  and  green, 
Into  the  wood  I  went  my  way. 

To  say  farewell  unto  my  queen. 

And  when  we  could  no  longer  stay. 
Weeping  upon  my  neck  she  fell, 

Oh,  send  me  news  from  far  away. 
Farewell,  sweet  heart  of  mine,  farewell. 

VIII 

O  Love,  my  love,  and  perfect  bliss ! 
God  in  his  goodness  grant  me  this — 

I  see  thee  soon  again. 
Nought  else   I  need  to  take  away 
The  grief  that  for  thy  sake  alway 

Doth  keep  me  in  great  pain. 

Alas,  I  know  not  what  to  do, 

Nor  how  to  get  good  news  and  true: 

Dear  God,  I  pray  to  Thee; 
If  else  Thou  canst  not  comfort  me, 
Of  Thy  great  mercy  make  that  he 

Send  speedy  news  to  me. 


Within  my  father's  garden  walls 
There  is  a  tree — when  April  falls 
It  blossometh  alway. 


«8  MEDIEVAL  NORMAN  SONGS 

There  wend  I  oft  in  winter  drear, 
Yes,   and   in  spring,  the  winds  to  hear, 
The  sweet  winds  at  their  play. 


IX 


Alas,  poor  heart,  I  pity  thee 

For   all    the   grief    thou    hast   and   care. 
My  love  I  see  not  anywhere; 
He  is  so  far  away  from  me. 
Until  once  more  his  face  I  see 

I  shall  be  sad  by  night  and  day; 
And  if  his  face  I  may  not  see 
Then  I  shall  die  most  certainly: 
For  other  pleasures  have  I  none. 
And  all  my  hope  is  this  alone. 
No  ease  I  take  by  night  and  day : 
O  Love,  my  love,  to  thee  I  pray 
Have  pity  upon  me ! 

Dear  nightingale  of  woodland   gay, 

Who  singest  on  the  leafy  tree, 
Go,  take  a  message  I  thee  pray, 

A  message  to  my  love  from  me; 
Tell,  tell  him  that  I  waste  away 
And  weaker  grow  from  day  to  day. 

Ah,  God !  what  pain  and  grief  have  we 
Who  are  poor  lovers,  leal  and  true : 
For  every  week  that  we  pass  through, 
Five  hundred  thousand  griefs  have  we: 
One  cannot  think,  or  count,  or  tell 
The  griefs  and  pains  that  we  know  well ! 


Now  who  is  he  on  earth  that  lives, 
Who  knows  or  with  his  tongue  can  say 


MEDIiEVAL  NORMAN  SONGS  S9 

What  grief  to  poor  lovers  it  gives 
To  love  with  loyal  heart  alway? 

So  bitter  is  their  portion,  yea, 

So  hard  their  part! 

But  this  doth  more  confound  my  heart; 
Unloved  to  love,   and  still  to  pray! 
Thinking  thereon  I  swoon  away. 

XI 

Sweet  flower,  that  art  so  fair  and  gay, 
Come  tell  me  if  thou  lovest  me. 
Think  well,  and  tell  me  presently: 
For  sore  it  irks  me,  by  my  fay. 

For  sore  it  irketh  me  alway, 

That  I  know  not  the  mind  of  thee: 
I  pray  thee,  gentle  lady  gay, 

If  so  thou  wilt,  tell  truth  to  me. 

For  I  do  love  thee  so,  sweet  May, 

That  if  my  heart  thou  wert  to  see, 

In  sooth  I  know,  of  courtesy. 
Thou  wouldst  have  pity  on  me  this  day. 

XII 

My  love  for  him  shall  be 

Fair  love  and  true : 

For  he  loves  me,  I  know. 
And  I  love  him,  pardie! 

And  for  I  know  that  he, 

Doth  love  me  so, 

I  should  be  all  untrue 
To  love  but  him,  pardie! 


30  MEDIEVAL  NORMAN  SONGS 

XIII 

Beneath  the  branch  of  the  green  may 

My  merry  heart  sleeps  happily, 

Waiting  for  him  who  promised  me 
To  meet  me  here  again  this  day. 

And  what  is  that  I  would  not  do 

To  please  my  love  so  dear  to  me? 
He  loves  me  with  leal  heart  and  true, 

And  I  love  him  no  less,  pardie. 

Perchance  I  see  him  but  a  day; 

Yet  maketh  he  my  heart  so  free — 

His  beauty  so  rejoiceth  me — 
That  month  thereafter  I  am  gay. 

XIV 

They  have  said  evil  of  my  dear;  ^ 

Therefore  my  heart  is  vexed  and  drear: 

But  what  is  it  to  them 
If  he  be  fair  or  foul  to  see, 
Since  he  is  perfect  joy  to  me. 

He  loves  me  well:  the  like  do  I: 

I  do  not  look  with  half  an  eye,  » 

But  seek  to  pleasure  him.  ^ 

From  all  the  rest  I  choose  him  here; 
I  want  no  other  for  my  dear: 

How  then  should  he  displease 
Those  who  may  leave  him  if  they  please? 

God  keep  him  from  all  fear. 

XV 

They  lied,  those  lying  traitors  all, 
Disloyal,  hypocritical, 


MEDIiEVAL  NORMAN  SONGS  81 

Who  feigned  that  I  spake  ill  of  thee. 
Heed  not  their  words  of  charity; 
For  they  are  flatterers  tongued  with  gall, 
And  liars  all. 


They  make  the  tales  that  they  let  fall, 
Coining  falsehoods,  where  withal 
They  swear  that  I  spake  ill  of  thee: 
Heed  not  their  lies  of  charity ; 
For  they  are  flatterers  tongued  with  gall, 
And  liars  all. 

Believe  them  not,  although  they  call 
Themselves  thy  servants ;  one  and  all. 
They  lie,  or  God's  curse  light  on  me, — 
Whatever  oaths  they  swear  to  thee, 
Or  were  they  thrice  as  stout  and  tall, 
They're  liars  all. 

XVI 

O   nightingale   of  woodland   gay, 
Go   to   my   love  and   to   her  tell 
That   I   do  love  her  passing  well; 
And  bid  her  also  think  of  me, 
For    I    to    her   will    bring    the    may. 

The  may  that  I  shall  bring  will  be. 
Nor  rose  nor  any  opening  flower; 
But  with  my  heart  I  will  her  dower; 
And  kisses  on  her  lips   I'll  lay, 
And  pray  God  keep  her  heartily. 

XVII 


Maid  Marjory  sits  at  the  castle  gate: 
With  groans  and  sighs 
She  weeps  and  cries: 


32  MEDIEVAL  NORMAN  SONGS 

Her  grief  it  is  great. 

Her  father  asks,  "Daughter,  what  is  your  woe? 

Seek  you  a  husband  or  lord  I  trow?" 

"Let  husbands  be. 

Give  my  love  to  me, 
Who  pines  in  the  dungeon  dark  below." 

'T  faith,  my  daughter,  thou'U  long  want  him; 
For  he  hangs  to-morrow  when  dawn  is  dim." 

"Then  bury  my  corpse  at  the  gallows'  feet; 

And   men   will    say   they   were   true   lovers   sweet." 

XVIII 

Drink,  gossips  mine!  we  drink  no  wine. 
They  were  three  wives  that  had  one  heart  for  wine; 
One  to  the  other  said — We  drink  no  wine ! 

Drink,  gossips  mine!  we  drink  no  wine. 

Drink,  gossips  mine !  we  drink  no  wine. 
The  varlet  stood  in  jerkin  tight  and  fine 
To  serve  the  dames  with  service  of  good  wine. 

Drink,  gossips  mine !  we  drink  no  wine. 

Drink,  gossips  mine!  we  drink  no  wine. 
These  wives  they  cried — Here's  service  of  good  wine! 
Make  we  good  cheer,  nor  stint  our  souls  of  wine  I 

Drink,  gossips  mine !  we  drink  no  wine. 

Drink,  gossips  mine !  we  drink  no  wine. 
The  gallant  fills,   nor   seeketh   further  sign, 
But  crowns  the  cups  with  service  of  good  wine. 

Drink,  gossips  mine !  we  drink  no  wine. 

Drink,  gossips  mine!  we  drink  no  wine. 
Sinning  beginneth,  and  sweet  notes   combine 
With  joyance  to  proclaim  the  praise  of  wine! 

Drink,  gossips  mine !  we  drink  no  wine. 


MEDIEVAL  NORMAN  SONGS  33 

Drink,  gossips  mine !  we  drink  no  wine. 
For  fear  of  husbands  will  we  never  pine; 
They  are  not  here  to  mar  the  taste  of  wine. 

Drink,  gossips  mine!  we  drink  no  wine. 

(John  Addington  Symonds.) 


BALLADS 

The  Three  Captains 

ALL  beneath  the  white-rose  tree 
Walks  a  lady  fair  to  see, 
She  is  as  white  as  the  snows, 
She  is  as  fair  as  the  day: 

From  her  father's  garden  close 
Three  knights  have  ta'en  her  away. 

He  has  ta'en  her  by  the  hand, 

The  youngest  of  the  three — 
"Mount  and  ride,  my  bonnie  bride. 

On  my  white  horse  with  me." 

And  ever  they  rode,  and  better  they  rode, 

Till  they  came  to  Senlis  town, 
The  hostess  she  looked  hard  at  them 

As  they  were  lighting  down. 

"And  are  ye  here  by  force,"  she  said, 

"Or  are  ye  here  for  play?" 
"From  out  my  father's  garden  close 

Three  knights  me  stole  away. 

"And  fain  would  I  win  back,"  she  said, 

"The  weary  way  I  come: 
And  fain  would  see  my  father  dear, 

And  fain  go  maiden  home." 


S4  ANONYMOUS 

"Oh,  weep  not,  lady  fair,"  said  she, 

"You  shall  win  back,"  she  said, 
"For  you  shall  take  this  draught  from  me 

Will  make  you  lie  for  dead." 

"Come  in  and  sup,  fair  lady,"  they  said, 

"Come  busk  ye  and  be  bright; 
It  is  with  three  bold  captains 

That  ye  must  be  this  night" 

When  they  had  eaten  well  and  drunk, 

She  fell  down  like  one  slain ; 
"Now,  out  and  alas,  for  my  bonnie  may  J 

Shall  live  no  more  again." 


"Within  her  father's  garden  stead 

There  are  three  white  lilies; 
With  her  body  to  the  lily  bed, 

With  her  soul  to  Paradise." 

They  bore  her  to  her  father's  house, 

They  bore  her  all  the  three, 
They  laid  her  in  her  father's  close, 

Beneath  the  white-rose  tree. 

She  had  not  lain  a  day,  a  day, 

A  day  but  barely  three. 
When  the  may  awakes.  "Oh,  open,  father, 

Oh,  open  the  door  for  me. 

"'Tis  I  have  lain  for  dead,  father, 

Have  lain  the  long  days  three, 
That  I  might  maiden  come  again 

To  my  mother  and  to  thee." 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


I 


ANONYMOUS  35 

The  Bridge  of  Death 

THE  dance  is  on  the  Bridge  of  Death 
And  who  will  dance  with  me?" 
"There's  never  a  man  of  living  men 
Will  dare  to  dance  with  thee." 

Now  Margaret's  gone  within  her  bower 

Put  ashes  in  her  hair, 
And  sackcloth  on  her  bonny  breast, 

And  on  her  shoulders  bare. 

There  came  a  knock  to  her  bower  door, 

And  blithe  she  let  him  in ; 
It  was  her  brother  from  the  wars, 

The  dearest  of  her  kin. 

"Set  gold  within  your  hair,  Margaret, 

Set  gold  within  your  hair. 
And  gold  upon  your  girdle  band, 

And  on  your  breast  so  fair. 

"For  we  are  bidden  to  dance  to-night, 

We  may  not  bide  away; 
This  one  good  night,  this  one  fair  night, 

Before  the  red  new  day." 

"Nay,  no  gold  for  my  head,  brother, 

Nay,  no  gold  for  my  hair; 
It  is  the  ashes  and  dust  of  earth 

That  you  and  I  must  wear. 

"No  gold  for  my  girdle  band, 

No  gold  work  on  my  feet; 
But  ashes  of  the  fire,  my  love, 

But  dust  that  the  serpents  eat." 


36  ANONYMOUS 

They  danced  across  the  Bridge  of  Death, 

Above  the  black  water, 
And  the  marriage-bell  was  tolled  in  hell 

For  the  souls  of  him  and  her. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


LE  PERE  SEVERE 

{King  Louis'   daughter) 

Ballad  of  the  Isle  of  France 


K 


ING  LOUIS  on  his  bridge  is  he, 
He  holds  his  daughter  on  his  knee 


She  asks  a  husband  at  his  hand 
That  is  not  worth  a  rood  of  land. 

"Give  up  your  lover  speedily, 

Or  you  within  the  tower  must  lie." 

"Although  I  must  the  prison  dree, 
I  will  not  change  my  love  for  thee. 

"I  will  not  change  my  lover  fair, 
Not  for  the  mother  that  me  bare. 

"I  will  not  change  my  true  lover 
For  friends  or  for  my  father  dear." 

"Now  where  are  all  my  pages  keen, 
And  where  are  all  my  serving  men? 

"My  daughter  must  lie  in  the  tower  alway. 
Where  she  shall  never  see  the  day." 

Seven  long  years  are  past  and  gone 
And  there  has  seen  her  never  one. 


ANONYMOUS  87 

At  ending  of  the  seventh  year 
Her  father  goes  to  visit  her. 

"My  child,  my  child,  how  may  you  be?" 
"O   father,  it  fares  ill  with  me. 

"My  feet  are  wasted  in  the  mold,  4 

The  worms  they  gnaw  my  side  so  cold." 

"My  child,  change  your  love  speedily 
Or  you  must  still  in  prison  lie." 

*"Tis  better  far  the  cold  to  dree 
Than  give  my  true  love  up  for  thee." 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


The  Milk  White  Doe 

It  was  a  mother  and  a  maid 
That  walked  the  woods  among, 

And  still  the  maid  went  slow  and  sad, 
And   still  the   mother   sung. 

"What  ails  you,  daughter  Margaret? 

Why  go  you  pale  and  wan? 
Is  it  for  a  cast  of  bitter  love, 

Or  for  a  false  leman?" 

"It  is  not  for  a  false  lover 

That  I  go  sad  to  see; 
But  it  is  for  a  weary  life 

Beneath   the  greenwood   tree. 

"For  ever  in  the  good  daylight 

A  maiden  may  I  go. 
But  always  on  the  ninth  midnight 

I  change  to  a  milk  white  doe. 


38  ANONYMOUS 

"They  hunt  me  through  the  green  forest 

With  hounds  and  hunting  men; 
And  ever  it  is  my  fair  brother 

That  is   so  fierce  and  keen." 

•  ••••• 

"Good-morrow,  mother."     "Good-morrow,  son; 

Where  are  your  hounds  so  good?" 
"Oh,  they  are  hunting  a  white  doe 

Within  the  glad  greenwood. 

"And  three  times  have  they  hunted  her, 

And  thrice  she's  won  away; 
The  fourth  time  that  they  follow  her 

That  white  doe  they  shall  slay." 

Then  out  and  spoke  the  forester, 

As  he  came  from  the  wood, 
"Now  never  saw  I  maid's  gold  hair 

Among  the  wild  deer's  blood. 

"And  I  have  hunted  the  wild  deer 

In  east  lands  and  in  west; 
And  never  saw  I  white  doe  yet 

That  had  a  maiden's  breast." 

Then  up  and  spake  her  fair  brother. 

Between  the  wine  and  bread, 
"Behold,  I  had  but  one  sister, 

And  I  have  seen  her  dead." 

"But  ye  must  bury  my  sweet  sister 
With  a  stone  at  her  foot  and  her  head, 

And  ye  must  cover  her  fair  body 
With  the  white  roses  and  red." 

And  I  must  out  to  the  greenwood; 

The  roof  shall  never  shelter  me; 
And  I  shall  lie  for  seven  long  years 

On  the  grass  below  the  hawthorn  tree. 

{Andrew  Lang.) 


ANONYMOUS  99 

A  Lady  of  High  Degree 

I   be   pareld   most   of   prise, 
I  ride  after  the  wild  fee. 

WILL  ye  that  I  should  sing 
Of  the  love  of  a  goodly  thing, 
Was  no  vilein's  may? 
'Tis  sung  of  a  knight  so  free, 
Under  the  olive  tree, 
Singing  this  lay. 

Her  weed  was  of  samite  fine. 
Her  mantle  of  white  ermme, 

Green  silk  her  hose; 
Her  shoon  were  silver  gray, 
Her  sandals  flowers  of  May, 

Laced  small  and  close. 

Her  belt  was  of  fresh  spring  buds, 
Set  with  gold  claps  and  studs, 

Fine  linen   her  shift; 
Her  purse  it  was  of  love, 
Her  chain  was  the  flower  thereof. 

And  Love's  gift. 

Upon  a  mule  she  rode, 
The  selle  was  of  brent  gold. 

The  bits  of  silver  made; 
Three  red  rose  trees  there  were 
That  overshadowed  her, 

For  a  sun  shade. 

She  riding  on  a  day. 
Knights  met  her  by  the  way. 

They  did  her  grace; 
"Fair  lady,  whence  be  ye?" 
'Trance  it  is  my  country, 

I  come  of  a  high  race. 


40  ANONYMOUS 

"My  sire  is  the  nightingale, 
That  sings,  making  his  wail, 

In  the  wild  wood  clear; 
The  mermaid  is  mother  to  me, 
That  sings  in  the  salt  sea. 

In  the  ocean  mere." 


"Ye  come  of  a  right  good  race, 
And  are  born  of  a  high  place. 

And  of  high  degree; 
Would  to  God  that  ye  were 
Given  unto  me,  being  fair, 

My  lady  and  love  to  be." 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


Lost  for  a  Rose's  Sake 

I  LAVED  my  hands. 
By  the  water  side; 
With  the  willow  leaves 
My  hands  I  dried. 

The  nightingale  sung 

On  the  bough  of  the  tree; 

Sing,  sweet  nightingale, 
It  is  well  with  thee. 

Thou  hast  heart's  delight, 
I  have  sad  heart's  sorrow 

For  a  false,  false  maid 
That  will  wed  to-morrow. 

'Tis  all  for  a  rose. 

That  I  gave  her  not. 
And  I  would  that  it  grew 

In  the  garden  plot. 


ANONYMOUS  41 

And  I  would  the  rose-tree 

Were  still  to  set, 
That  my  love  Marie 

Might  love  me  yet. 

{Andrew  Lang.) 


OLD  FRENCH 

My  Father's  Close 

INSIDE  my  father's  close, 
(Fly  away,   O  my  heart,  away!) 
Sweet  apple-blossom  blows 
So  sweet. 

Three  kings'  daughters  fair, 

(Fly  away,  O  my  heart,  away!) 

They  lie  below  it  there 
So  sweet. 

"Ah,"  says  the  eldest  one, 

(Fly  away,  O  my  heart,  away!) 

I  think  the  day's  begun 
So  sweet." 

"Ah,"  says  the  second  one, 

(Fly  away,  O  my  heart,  away!) 

Far  off  I  hear  the  drum 
So  sweet." 

"Ah,"  says  the  youngest  one, 
(Fly  away,  O  my  heart,  away!) 

It's  my  true  love,  my  own, 
So  sweet." 

"Oh,  if  he  fight  and  win, 

(Fly  away,  O  my  heart,  away!) 
"I  keep  my  love  for  him, 


42  OLD  FRENCH 

So  sweet : 
Oh,  let  him  lose  or  win, 
He  hath  it  still  complete." 

(D.  G.  Rossetti.) 


FRANCOIS  VILLON   (1431-1489) 
Ballad  of  the  Gibbet 

An  Epitaph  in  the  form  of  a  ballad  that  Frangois  Villon. 
ivrote  of  himself  and  his  company,  they  expecting  shortly  to  be 
hanged. 

BROTHERS  and  men  that  shall  after  us  be, 
Let  not  your  hearts  be  hard  to  us: 
For  pitying  this  our  misery 

Ye  shall  find  God  the  more  piteous. 

Look  on  us  six  that  are  hanging  thus, 
And  for  the  flesh  that  so  much  we  cherished 
How  it  is  eaten  of  birds  and  perished, 

And  ashes  and  dust  fill  our  bones'  place, 
Mock  not  at  us  that  so  feeble  be, 

But  pray  God  pardon  us  out  of  His  grace. 

Listen  we  pray  you,  and  look  not  in  scorn. 

Though  justly,  in  sooth,  we  are  cast  to  die; 
Ye  wot  no  man  so  wise  is  born 

That  keeps  his  wisdom  constantly. 

Be  ye  then  merciful,  and  cry 
To  Mary's   Son  that  is  piteous, 
That  his  mercy  take  no  stain  from  us, 

Saving  us  out  of  the  fiery  place. 
We  are  but  dead,  let  no  soul  deny 

To  pray  God  succor  us  of  His  grace. 

The  rain  out  of  heaven  has  washed  us  clean. 

The  sun  has  scorched  us  black  and  bare. 
Ravens  and  rooks  have  pecked  at  our  eyne. 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  43 

And  feathered  their  nests  with  our  beards  and  hair. 

Round  are  we  tossed,  and  here  and  there, 
This  way  and  that,  at  the  wild  wind's  will, 
Never  a  moment  my  body  is  still ; 

Birds  they  are  busy  about  my  face. 
Live  npt  as  we,  not  fare  as  we  fare; 

Pray  God  pardon  us  out  of  His  grace. 

L'envoy 

Prince  Jesus,  Master  of  all,  to  thee 
We  pray  Hell  gain  no  mastery. 

That    we    come    never    anear    that   place; 
And  ye  men,  make  no  mockery. 

Pray  God,  pardon  us  out  of  His  grace. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 

Rondel 

GOOD-BY,  the  tears  are  in  my  eyes ; 
Farewell,    farewell,   my  prettiest; 
Farewell,  of  women  born  the  best; 
Good-by,  the  saddest  of  good-bys. 
Farewell,  with  many  vows  and  sighs 

My  sad  heart  leaves  you  to  your  rest; 
Farewell,  the  tears  are  in  my  eyes ; 
Farewell,  from  you  my  miseries 
Are  more  than  now  may  be  confessed. 
And  most  by  thee  have  I  been  blessed. 
Yea,  and  for  thee  have  wasted  sighs ; 
Good-by,  the  last  of  my  good-bys. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 

Arbor  Amoris 

I    HAVE  a  tree,  a  graft  of  love, 
That  in  my  heart  has  taken  root; 
Sad  are  the  buds  and  blooms  thereof, 


44  FRANCOIS  VILLON 

And  bitter  sorrow  is  its  fruit; 

Yet,  since  it  was  a  tender  shoot, 
So  greatly  hath  its  shadow  spread, 
That  underneath  all  joy  is  dead, 

And  all  my  pleasant  days  are  flown, 
Nor  can  I  slay  it,  nor  instead 

Plant  any  tree,   save  this  alone. 

Ah,  yet,  for  long  and  long  enough 

My  tears  were  rain  about  its  root, 
And  though  the  fruit  be  harsh  thereof, 

I   scarcely  looked   for  better    fruit 

Than  this,  that  carefully  I  put 
In  garner,  for  the  bitter  bread 
Whereon  my  weary  life  is  fed : 

Ah,  better  were  the  soil  unsown 
That  bears  such  growths;  but  Love  instead 

Will  plant  no  tree,  but  this  alone. 

Ah,  would  that  this  new  spring,  whereof 
The  leaves  and  flowers  flush  into  shoot, 

I  might  have  succor  and  aid  of  Love, 
To  prune  these  branches  at  the  root, 
That  long  have  borne  such  bitter  fruit. 

And  graft  a  new   bough,   comforted 

With  happy  blossoms  white  and  red; 
So  pleasure  should  for  pain  atone, 

Nor  Love  slay  this  tree,  nor  instead 
Plant  any  tree,  but  this  alone. 

L'envoy 

Princess,  by  whom  my  hope  is  fed. 
My  heart  thee  prays  in  lowlihead 

To  prune  the  ill  boughs  overgrown, 
Nor   slay   Love's   tree,   nor   plant   instead 

Another  tree,   save  this   alone. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  45 

No,  I  Am  Not  As  Others  Are 

NO,  I  am  not,  as  others  are, 
Child  of  the  angels,  with  a  wreath 
Of  planets  or  of  any  star. 
My  father's  dead,  and  lies  beneath 
The  churchyard  stone :  God  rest  his  breath ! 
I  know  that  my  poor  old  mother 
(And  she  too  knows)  must  come  to  death, 
And  that  her  son  must  follow  her. 

I  know  that  rich  and  poor  and  all, 
Foolish  and  wise,  and  priest  and  lay, 
Mean  folk  and  noble,  great  and  small, 
High  and  low,  fair  and  foul,  and  they 
That  wore  rich  clothing  on  the  way, 
Being  of  whatever  stock  or  stem, 
And  are  coiffed  newly  every  day. 
Death  shall  take  every  one  of  them. 

Paris  and  Helen  are  both  dead. 
Whoever  dies,  dies  with  much  pain ; 
For  when  his  wind  and  breath  are  sped 
His  gall  breaks  on  his  heart,  and  then 
He  sweats,  God  knows  that  sweat  of  men! 
Then  shall  he  pray  against  his  doom 
Child,  brother,  sister,  all  in  vain : 
None  will  be  surety  in  his  room. 

Death  makes  him  tremble  and  turn  pale, 
His  veins  stretch  and  his  nose  fall  in, 
His  flesh  grow  moist  and  his  neck  swell. 
Joints  and  nerves  lengthen  and  wax  thin; 
Body  of  woman,  that  hath  been 
Soft,  tender,  precious,  smooth  and  even, 
Must  thou  be  spoiled  in  bone  and  skin? 
Yes,  or  else  go  alive  to  heaven. 

(Arthur   Symons.) 


46  FRANCOIS  VILLON 

Fillon's  Straight  Tip  to  All  Cross  Coves 

SUPPOSE    you    screeve?    or   go   cheap-jack? 
Or  fake  the  broads?  or  fig  a  nag? 
Or  thimble-rig?  or  knap  a  yack? 
Or  pitch  a  snide?  or  smash  a  rag? 
Suppose  you  duff?  or  nose  and  lag? 
Or  get  the  straight,  and  land  your  pot? 

How  do  you  melt  the  multy  swag? 
Booze  and  the  blowens  cop  the  lot. 

Fiddle,  or  fence,  or  mace,  or  mack; 

Or  moskeneer,  or  flash  the  drag; 
Dead-lurk  a  crib,  or  do  a  crack; 

Pad  with  a  slang,  or  chuck  a  fag; 

Bonnet,  or  tout,  or  mump  and  gag; 
Rattle  the  tats,  or  mark  the  spot; 

You  can  not  bank  a  single  stag; 
Booze  and  the  blowens  cop  the  lot. 

Suppose  you  try  a  different  tack, 

And  on  the  square  you  flash  your  flag? 
At  penny-a-lining  make  your  whack, 

Or  with  the  mummers  mug  and  gag? 

For  nix,  for  nix  the  dibbs  you  bag! 
At  any  graft,  no  matter  what, 

Your   merry   goblins    soon    stravag: 
Booze  and  the  blowens  cop  the  lot. 

The  Moral 

It's  up  the  spout  and  Charley  Wag 
With  wipes  and  tickers  and  what  not. 

Until  the  squeezer  nips  your  scrag, 
Booze  and  the  blowens  cop  the  lot. 

(W.  E.  Henley.) 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  47 

The  Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies 

TELL  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is 
Lady    Flora    the    lovely    Roman? 
Where's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thais, 
Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman? 
Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man, 
Only  heard  on  river  and  mere, — 

She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human?  .  .  . 
But  where  are  the   snows   of   yester-year? 


Where's   Heloise,   the  learned   nun, 
For  whose  sake  Abeillard,  I  ween, 

Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on? 

(From   Love  he  won   such  dule  and  teen!) 
And   where,   I   pray  you,  is  the   Queen 

Who    willed    that    Buridan    should    steer 

Sewed  in   a   sack's  mouth  down  the   Seine?  . 

But   where   are   the   snows   of   yester-year? 


White  Queen  Blanche,  like  a  queen  of  lilies. 
With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden, — 

Bertha   Broadfoot,   Beatrice,   Alice, 

And    Ermengarde   the   lady   of    Maine,— 
And  that  good  Joan  whom  Englishmen 

At  Rouen  doomed  and  burned  her  there,— 
Mother  of  God,  where  are  they  then?  .  .  . 

But  where   are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 


Nay,  never  ask  this  week,  fair  lord. 
Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year. 

Save  virith  this  much  for  an  overword, — 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

(L>.  G.  Rossetti.) 


48  FRANCOIS  VILLON 

To  Death,  of  His  Lady 

DEATH,  of  thee  do  I  make  my  moan. 
Who  hadst  my  lady  away  from  me. 
Nor  wilt  assuage  thine  enmity 
Till  with  her  life  thou  hast  mine  own; 
For  since  that  hour  my  strength  has  flown. 
Lo!  what  wrong  was  her  life  to  thee, 

Death? 

Two  we  were,  and  the  heart  was  one;  ^ 

Which  now  being  dead,  dead  I  must  be, 
Or  seem  alive  as  lifelessly 
As  in  the  choir  the  painted  stone, 

Death ! 

(D.  G.  RossetHi) 

I 

His  Mother's  Service  to  Our  Lady 

LADY  of  Heaven  and  ear*h,  and  therewithal 
Crowned  Empress  of  the  nether  clefts  of  Hell, — 
I,  thy  poor  Christian,  on  thy  name  do  call, 

Commending  me  to  thee,  with  thee  to  dwell, 

Albeit  in  nought  I  be  commendable. 
But  all  mine  undeserving  may  not  mar 
Such   mercies   as   thy   sovereign   mercies   are; 

Without  the  which    (as  true  words  testify) 
No   soul  can   reach   thy   Heaven   so   fair  and  far. 

Even  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

Unto  thy  Son  say  thou  that  I  am  His, 

And  to  me  graceless  make  Him  gracious. 

Sad  Mary  of  Egypt  lacked  not  of  that  bliss, 

Nor  yet  the  sorrowful  clerk  Theophilus, 

Whose  bitter  sins  were  set  aside  even  thus 

'       Though  to  the  Fiend  his  bounden  service  was. 

Oh  help  me,  lest  in  vain  for  me  should  pass 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  49 

(Sweet  Virgin  that  shalt  have  no  loss  thereby!) 
The  blessed  Host  and  sacring  of  the  Mass. 
Even  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

A  pitiful  poor   woman,   shrunk  and  old, 
I  am,  and  nothing  learn'd   in  letter-lore. 

Within  my  parish-cloister   I   behold 
A  painted  Heaven  where  harps  and  lutes  adore, 
And  eke  an  Hell  whose  damned  folk  seethe  full  sore: 

One  bringeth   fear,  the  other  joy  to  me. 

That  joy,  great  Goddess,  make  thou  mine  to  be, — 
Thou  of  whom  all  must  ask  it  even  as  I ; 

And  that  which  faith  desires,  that  let  it  see. 
For  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

O  excellent  Virgin  Princess !  thou  didst  bear 
King  Jesus,  the  most  excellent  comforter, 

Who  even  of  this  our  weakness  craved  a  share 
And  for  our  sake  stooped  to  us  from  on  high, 

OfTering  to  death  His  young  life  sweet  and  fair. 

Such  as  He  is.  Our  Lord,  I  Him  declare, 
And  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

(£>.  G.  Rossettl) 


The  Complaint  of  the  Fair  Armouress 

I 

MESEEMETH  I  heard  cry  and  groan 
That  sweet  who  was  the  armourer's  maid; 
For  her  young  years  she  made  sore  moan, 

And  right  upon  this  wise  she  said; 
"Ah  fierce  old  age  with   foul  bald  head. 
To  spoil  fair  things  thou  art  over  fain; 

Who  holdeth  me?  who?  would  God  I  were  dead! 
Would  God  I  were  well  dead  and  slain ! 


50  FRANCOIS  VILLON 

II 

"Lo,  thou  hast  broken  the  sweet  yoke 
That  my  high  beauty  held  above 

All   priests    and   clerks   and   merchant-folk; 
There  was  not  one  but  for  my  love 
Would  give  me  gold  and  gold  enough. 

Though  sorrow  his  very  heart  had  riven, 
To  win  from  me  such  wage  thereof 

As  now  no  thief  would  take  if  given. 

Ill 

"I  was  right  chary  of  the  same, 

God  wot  it  was  my  great  folly, 
For  love  of  one  sly  knave  of  them, 

Good  store  of  that  same  sweet  had  he; 

For  all  my  subtle  wiles,  perdie, 
God  wot  I  loved  him  well  enow; 

Right  evilly  handled  me. 
But  he  loved  well  my  gold,  I  trow. 

IV 

"Though  I  gat  bruises  green  and  black, 
I  loved  him  never  the  less  a  jot; 

Though  he  bound  burdens  on  my  back, 
If  he  said,  'Kiss  me,  and  heed  it  not,' 
Right   little   pain   I    felt,   God   wot, 

When  that  foul  thief's  mouth,  found  so  sweet. 
Kissed  me — Much  good  thereof   I  got! 

I  keep  the  sin  and  the  shame  of  it. 

V 

"And  he  died  thirty  year  agone. 

I  am  old  now,  no  sweet  thing  to  see; 
By  God,  though,  when  I  think  thereon. 

And  of  that  good  glad  time,  woe's  me, 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  51 

And  stare  upon  my  changed  body- 
Stark  naked,  that  has  been  so  sweet, 

Lean,  wizen,  like  a  small  dry  tree, 
I  am  nigh  mad  with  the  pain  of  it. 


VI 


"Where  is  my  faultless  forehead's  white, 

The  lifted  eyebrows,  soft  gold  hair. 
Eyes  wide  apart  and  keen  of  sight, 

With  subtle  skill  in  the  amorous  air; 

The  straight  nose,  great  nor  small,  but  fair. 
The  small  carved  ears  of  shapeliest  growth. 

Chin  dimpling,  color  good  to  wear. 
And  sweet  red  splendid  kissing  mouth? 

VII 

"The   shapely   slender    shoulders   small, 
Long  arms,  hands  wrought  in  glorious  wise. 

Round  little  breasts,  the  hips  withal 
High,  full  of  flesh,  not  scant  of  size, 

Fit  for  all  amorous  masteries ; 

*  *  *  *  * 

***** 

*  *  ♦  *  * 

VIII 

"A  writhled  forehead,  hair  gone  gray. 

Fallen  eyebrows,  eyes  gone  blind  and  red, 
Their  laughs  and  looks  all  fled  away. 

Yea,  all  that  smote  men's  hearts  are  fled; 

The  bowed  nose,  fallen  from  goodlihead; 
Foul  flapping  ears  like  water-flags ; 

Peaked  chin,  and  cheeks  all  waste  and  dead. 
And  lips  that  are  two  skinny  rags: 


52  FRANCOIS  VILLON 

IX 

"Thus  endeth  all  the  beauty  of  us. 

The  arms  made  short,  the  hands  made  lean, 
The    shoulders   bowed    and   ruinous, 

The  breasts,  alack!  all   fallen  in; 

The  flanks  too,  like  the  breasts,  grown  thin; 
***** 

For  the  lank  thighs,  no  thighs  but  skin, 
They  are  specked  with  spots  like  sausage-meat. 

X 

"So  we  make  moan  for  the  old  sweet  days. 

Poor  old  light  women,  two  or  three 
Squatting  above  the   straw-fire's  blaze. 

The  bosom  crushed  against  the  knee. 

Like  fagots  on  a  heap  we  be, 
Round  fires  soon  lit,  soon  quenched  and  done; 

And  we  were  once  so  sweet,  even  we! 
Thus  fareth  many  and  many  an  one." 

(A.  C.  Swinburne.) 


A  Double  Ballad  of  Good  Counsel 

NOW  take  your  fill  of  love  and  glee. 
And  after  balls  and  banquets  hie; 
In  the  end  ye'll  get  no  good  for  fee. 
But    just    heads    broken    by    and    by; 
Light  loves  make  beasts  of  men  that  sigh; 
They  changed   the   faith  of   Solomon, 

And    left  not   Samson   lights   to   spy; 
Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none! 

Sweet   Orpheus,   lord   of  minstrelsy. 

For  this  with  flute  and  pipe  came  nigh 
The  danger  of  the  dog's  heads  three 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  53 

That  ravening  at  hell's  door  doth  lie; 

Fain  was   Narcissus,   fair  and  shy, 
For  love's  love  lightly  lost  and  won, 

In  a  deep  well  to  drown  and  die; 
Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none! 

Sardana,    flower    of    chivalry, 

Who   conquered    Crete   with   horn   and   cry, 
For  this  was   fain  a  maid  to  be 

And  learn  with  girls  the  thread  to  ply; 

King  David,  wise  in  prophecy. 
Forgot   the   fear   of   God   for   one 

Seen  washing  either   shapely  thigh; 
Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none! 

For  this   did   Amnon,   craftily 

Feigning  to  eat  of  cakes  of  rye, 
Deflower    his    sister    fair    to    see. 

Which  was  foul  incest;   and  hereby 

Was  Herod  moved,  it  is  no  lie. 
To  lop   the  head  of    Baptist  John 

For  dance  and  jig  and  psaltery; 
Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none! 

Next  of  myself  I  tell,  poor  me, 

How  thrashed  like  clothes  at  wash  was  I 
Stark  naked,  I  must  needs  agree; 

Who  made  me  eat  so  sour  a  pie 

But  Katherine  of   Vaucelles?  thereby 
Noe  took  third  part  of  that   fun; 

Such  wedding-gloves  are  ill  to  buy; 
Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none! 

But  for  that  young  man   fair  and   free 

To  pass  those  young  maids  lightly  by, 
Nay,  would  you  burn  him  quick,  not  he; 

Like  broom-horsed  witches  though  he   fry, 

They  are  sweet  as  civet  in  his  eye; 


54  FRANCOIS  VILLON 

But  trust  them,  and  you're   fooled  anon; 

For  white  or  brown,  and  low  or  high, 
Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none ! 

(A.   C.  Swinburne.) 


Fragment  of  Death 

AND    Paris  be   it   or  Helen   dying, 
Who  dies  soever,  dies  with  pain. 
He  that  lacks  breath  and  wind  for  sighing, 
His  gall  bursts  on  his  heart ;  and  then 
He   sweats,   God   knows   what   sweat!   again. 
No   man   may   ease   him   of   his   grief ; 

Child,   brother,   sister,   none  were   fain 
To  ball  him  thence  for  his  relief. 

Death  makes   him    shudder,   swoon,   wax   pale, 

Nose  bend,  veins  stretch,  and  breath  surrender. 
Neck  swell,  flesh  soften,  joints  that  fail 

Crack  their  strained  nerves  and  arteries  slender. 

O  woman's  body  found  so  tender. 
Smooth,  sweet,  so  precious  in  men's  eyes. 

Must  thou  too  bear  such  count  to  render? 
Yes;  or  pass  quick  into  the  skies. 

(A.  C.  Swinburne.) 


Ballad  of  the  Lords  of  Old  Time 

(After  the  former  argument) 

WHAT  more  ?   Where  is  the  third  Calixt, 
Last  of  that  name  now  dead  and  gone, 
Who  held  four  years  the  Papalist? 
Alfonso  king  of  Aragon, 
The  grsccious  lord,  duke  of  Bourbon, 
And  Arthur,  duke  of  old  Britaine? 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  55 

And  Charles  the  Seventh,  that  worthy  one? 
Even   with   the   good   knight    Charlemain. 

The  Scot  too,  king  of  mount  and  mist, 

With   half   his   face  vermilion, 
Men  tell  us,  like  an  amethyst 

From  brow  to  chin  that  blazed  and  shone; 

The  Cypriote  king  of  old  renown, 
Alas !  and  that  good  king  of  Spain, 

Whose  name  I  cannot  think  upon? 
Even  with  the  good  knight  Charlemain. 

No  more  to  say  of  them  I  list; 

'Tis  all  but  vain,  all  dead  and  done: 
For   death  may  no  man  born  resist. 

Nor  make  appeal  when  death  comes  on. 

I  make   yet  one  more   question; 
Where's  Lancelot,  king  of   far   Bohain? 

Where's  he  whose  grandson  called  him  son? 
Even  with  the  good  knight  Charlemain. 

Where  is  Guesclin,   the  good  Breton? 

The  lord  of  the  eastern  mountain-chain, 
And  the  good  late  duke  of  Alengon? 

Even  with  the  good  knight  Charlemain. 

(A.  C.  Swinburne.) 


Ballad  of  the  Women  of  Paris 

ALBEIT  the  Venice  girls  get  praise 
For  their  sweet  speech  and  tender  air, 
And  though  the  old  women  have  wise  ways 
Of  chaffering  for  amorous  ware, 
Yet  at  my  peril  dare  I  swear, 
Search  Rome,  where  God's  grace  mainly  tarries, 

Florence  and  Savoy,  everywhere, 
There's  no  good  girl's   lip  out  of   Paris. 


56  FRANCOIS  VILLON 

The  Naples  women,  as  folk  prattle, 

Are   sweetly  spoken  and   subtle   enough: 
German  girls   are   good   at   tattle, 

And    Prussians   make   their   boast   thereof; 

Take   Egypt  for  the  next  remove. 
Or  that  waste  land  the  Tartar  harries, 

Spain   or   Greece,    for   the   matter  of   love, 
There's  no  good  girl's  lip  out  of  Paris. 

Breton  and   Swiss  know  nought  of  the  matter, 

Gascony  girls  or  girls  of  Toulouse; 
Two  fishwomen  with  a  half-hour's  chatter 

Would  shut  them  up  by  threes  and  twos; 

Calais,   Lorraine,    and    all    their   crews, 
(Names   enow   the   mad   song   marries) 

England  and    Picardy,  search   them  and  choose, 
There's  no  good  girl's  lip  out  of  Paris. 

Prince,  give  praise  to  our  French  ladies 
For  the  sweet  sound  their  speaking  carries; 

'Twixt  Rome  and  Cadiz  many  a  maid  is. 
But  no  good  girl's  lip  out  of  Paris. 

(A.  C.  Swinburne.) 


Ballad  Written  for  a  Bridegroom 

Which   Villon  gave   to  a  gentleman  newly  married  to   send 
to  his  wife  whom  he  had  won  with  the  sword. 

AT  daybreak,  when  the  falcon  claps  his  wings, 
No  whit  for  grief,  but  noble  heart  and  high 
With  loud  glad  noise  he  stirs  himself  and  springs, 
And  takes  his  meat  and  toward  his  lure  draws  nigh; 
Such  good  I  wish  you !     Yea,  and  heartily 
I  am  fired  with  hope  of  true  love's  meed  to  get; 

Know  that  Love  writes  it  in  his  book;  for  why, 
This  is   the  end   for  which  we  twain  are  met. 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  57 

Mine  own  heart's  lady  with  no  gainsayings 

You  shall  be  always  wholly  till  I  die; 
And  in  my  right  against  all  bitter  things 

Sweet  laurel  with  fresh  rose  its  force  shall  try; 

Seeing  reason  wills  not  that  I  cast  love  by 
(Nor  here  with  reason  shall  I  chide  or  fret) 

Nor  cease  to  serve,  but  serve  more  constantly; 
This  is  the  end  for  which  we  twain  are  met. 

And,  which  is  more,  when  grief  about  me  clings 

Through   Fortune's   fit   or  fume   of  jealousy, 
Your  sweet  kind  eye  beats  down  her  threatenings 

As  wind  doth  smoke;   such  power  sits  in  your  eye. 

Thus  in  your  field  my  seed  of  harvestry 
Thrives,  for  the  fruit  is  like  me  that  I  set; 

God  bids   me  tend   it  with  good  husbandry; 
This  is  the  end  for  which  we  twain  are  met. 

Princess,  give  ear  to  this  my  summary; 

That  heart  of  mine  your  heart's  love  should  forget. 
Shall  never  be :  like  trust  in  you  put  I : 

This  is  the  end  for  which  we  twain  are  met. 

(A.  C.  Swinburne.) 


Ballad  Against  the  Enemies  of  France 

MAY  he  fall  in  with  beasts  that  scatter  fire. 
Like  Jason,  when  he  sought  the  fleece  of  gold, 
Or  change  from  man  to  beast  three  years  entire, 

As  King  Nebuchadnezzar  did  of  old ; 
Or  else  have  times  as  shameful  and  as  bad 
As  Trojan  folk  for  ravished  Helen  had; 
Or  gulfed  with  Proserpine  and  Tantalus 
Let  hell's  deep  fen  devour  him  dolorous, 

With  worse  to  bear  than  Job's  worst  suflferance, 
Bound  in  his  prison-maze  with  Daedalus, 

Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  state  of  France! 


58  FRANCOIS  VILLON 

May  he  four  months,  like  bitterns  in  the  mire, 

Hovv'l  with  head  downmost  in  the  lake-springs  cold 
Or  to  bear  harness  like  strong  bulls  for  hire 

To  the  Great  Turk  for  money  down  be  sold; 
Or  thirty  years  like  Magdalen  live  sad, 
With  neither  wool  nor  web  of  linen  clad; 
Drown  like  Narciss',  or  swing  down  pendulous 
Like   Absalom    with   locks   luxurious, 

Or  liker  Judas   fallen  to  reprobance; 
Or  find  such  death  as  Simon  sorcerous, 

Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  state  of  France! 

May  the  old  times  come  of  fierce  Octavian's  ire, 

And   in  his   belly  molten  coin  be  told; 
May  he   like   Victor   in   the  mill   expire. 

Crushed-  between  moving  millstones  on  him  rolled, 
Or  in  deep  sea  drenched  breathless,  more  adrad 
Than  in  the  whale's  bulk  Jonas,  when  God  bade : 
From  Phoebus'  light,  from  Juno's  treasure-house 
Driven,  and  from  joys  of  Venus  amorous, 

And  cursed  of   God  most  high  to  the  utterance. 
As  was  the   Syrian  king  Antiochus, 

Who  could  wish  evil  to   the  state  of   France! 

Envoy 

Prince,  may  the  bright-winged  brood  of  ^olus 
To  sea-king  Glaucus'  wild  wood  cavernous 

Bear  him  bereft  of  peace  and  hope's  least  glance, 
For  worthless  is  he  to  get  good  of  us, 

Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  state  of  France! 

(A.  C.  Swinburne.) 


The  Dispute  of  the  Heart  and  Body  of  Franqois 

Villon 

WHO  is  this  I  hear?— Lo,  this  is  I,  thine  heart, 
That   holds    on   merely    now    by    a    slender    string- 
Strength   fails   me,   shape   and   sense   are   rent  apart, 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  59 

The  blood  in  me  is  turned  to  a  bitter  thing, 

Seeing  thee  skulk  here  like  a  dog   shivering. — 
Yea,  and   for  what? — For  that  thy   sense   found  sweet. — 
What  irks   it  thee? — I   feel  the  sting  of   it. — 

Leave  me  at  peace. — Why? — Nay  now,  leave  me  at  peace; 
I  will  repent  when  I  grow  ripe  in  wit. — 

I  say  no  more. — I   care  not  though  thou  cease. — 

What  are  thou,  trow? — A  man  worth  praise  perfay. — 

This  is  thy  thirtieth  year  of  wayfaring. — 
'Tis  a  mule's  age. — Art  thou  a  boy  still? — Nay. — 

Is  it  hot  lust  that  spurs  thee  with  its  sting, 

Grasping    thy    throat?      Know'st    thou    not    anything? — 
Yea,  black  and  white,  when  milk  is  specked  with  flies, 
I  can   make  out. — No  more? — Nay,  in  no  wise. 

Shall  I  begin  again  the  count  of  these? — 
Thou  art  undone. — I  will  make  shift  to  rise. — 

I  say  no  more. — I  care  not  though  thou  cease. — 

I  have  the  sorrow  of  it,  and  thou  the  smart. 

Wert  thou  a  poor  mad  fool  or  weak  of  wit. 
Then  might'st  thou  plead  this  pretext  with  thine  heart; 

But  if  thou  know  not  good  from  evil  a  whit, 

Either  thy  head  is  hard  as  stone  to  hit, 
Or    shame,   not   honor,   gives    thee    most   content. 
What  canst  thou  answer  to  this  argument? — 

When  I  am  dead  I  shall  be  well  at  ease. — 
God !   what  good   luck !— Thou  art  over  eloquent. — 

I  say  no  more. — I  care  not  though  thou  cease. — 

Whence  is  this  ill? — From  sorrow  and  not  from  sin. 

When  Saturn  packed  my  wallet  up  for  me 
I  well  believe  he  put  these  ills  therein. — 

Fool,   wilt  thou   make  thy  servant   lord  of  thee? 

Hear  now  the  wise  king's  counsel ;  thus  saith  he ; 
All  power  upon  the  stars  a  wise  man  hath; 
There  is  no  planet  that  shall  do  him  scathe. — 

Nay,  as  they  made  me  I  grow  and  I  decrease. — 


60  FRANCOIS  VILLON 

What  say'st  thou? — Truly  this  is  all  my  faith. — 
I  say  no  more. — I  care  not  though  thou  cease. — 

Wouldst  thou  live  still? — God  help  me  that  I  may! — 
Then   thou   must — What?   turn   penitent   and   pray? — 
Read   always — What? — Grave  words  and  good  to  say; 

Leave  off  the  ways  of  fools,  lest  they  displease. — 
Good;   I  will  do  it. — Wilt  thou  remember? — Yea. — 
Abide  not  till  there  come  an  evil  day. 

I  say  no  more. — I  care  not  though  thou  cease. 

(A.  C.  Swinburne.) 


Epistle  in  Form  of  a  Ballad  to  His  Friends 

HAVE  pity,  pity,  friends,  have  pity  on  me. 
Thus  much  at  least,  may  it  please  you,  of  your  grace ! 
I  lie  not  under  hazel  or  hawthorn-tree 

Down  in  this  dungeon  ditch,  mine  exile's  place 

By  leave  of  God  and  fortune's  foul  disgrace. 
Girls,  lovers,  glad  young  folk  and  newly  wed, 
Jumpers  and  jugglers,  tumbling  heel  o'er  head, 

Swift  as  a  dart,  and  sharp  as  needle-ware, 
Throats  clear  as  bells  that  ring  the  kine  to  shed. 

Your  poor  old  friend,  what,  will  you  leave  him  there? 

Singers  that  sing  at  pleasure,  lawlessly. 
Light,  laughing,  gay  of  word  and  deed,  that  race 

And   run    like    folk   light-witted   as   ye   be 

And  have  in  hand  nor  current  coin  nor  base. 
Ye  wait  too  long,  for  now  he's  dying  apace. 

Rhymers   of   lays   and   roundels   sung  and   read, 

Ye'll  brew  him   broth  too  late  when  he   lies  dead. 
Nor  wind  nor  lightning,  sunbeam  nor  fresh  air, 

May  pierce  the  thick  wall's  bound  where  lies  his  bed; 

Your  poor  old   friend,  what,  will  you  leave  him  there? 

O  noble  folk  from  tithes  and  taxes  free, 
Come  and  behold  him  in  this  piteous  case. 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  6l 

Ye  that  nor  king  nor  emperor  holds  in  fee, 
But  only  God  in  heaven;  behold  his  face 
Who  needs  must  fast,  Sundays  and  holidays, 
Which  makes  his  teeth  like  rakes ;  and  when  he  hath  fed 
With  never  a  cake   for  banquet  but  dry  bread, 
Must  drench  his  bowels  with  much  cold  watery  fare, 
With  board  nor  stool,  but  low  on  earth  instead; 
Your  poor  old  friend,  what,  will  you  leave  him  there? 

Princes  afore-named,  old  and  young   foresaid, 
Get  me  the  king's   seal  and  my  pardon  sped. 

And  hoist  me  in  some  basket  up  with  care: 
So  swine  will  help  each  other  ill  bested. 
For  where  one  squeaks  they  run  in  heaps  ahead. 

Your  poor  old   friend,   what,   will  you  leave  him  there? 

(A.  C.  Swinburne.) 


The  Epitaph  in  Form  of  a  Ballad 

Which  Villon  made  for  himself  and  his  comrades,  expecting 
to  be  hanged  along  with  them. 

MEN,  brother  men,  that  after  us  yet  live. 
Let  not  your  hearts  too  hard  against  us  be; 
For  if  some  pity  of   us  poor  men  ye  give. 

The   sooner   God   shall   take  of  you  pity. 

Here  are  we  five  or  six  strung  up,  you  see, 
And  here  the  flesh  that  all  too  well  we  fed 
Bit  by  bit  eaten  and  rotten,  rent  and  shred. 

And  we  the  bones  grow  dust  and  ash  withal; 
Let  no  man  laugh  at  us  discomforted. 

But  pray  to  God  that  he  forgive  us  all. 

If  we  call   on  you,  brothers,   to   forgive. 
Ye  should  not  hold  our  prayer  in  scorn,  though  we 

Were  slain  by  law ;  ye  know  that  all  alive 
Have  not  wit  alway  to  walk  righteously; 
Make  therefore  intercession  heartily 


62  FRANCOIS  VILLON 

With  him  that  of  a  virgin's  womb  was  bred, 
That  his  grace  be  not  as  a  dry  well-bead 

For  us,  nor  let  hell's  thunder  on  us  fall; 
We  are  dead ;  let  no  man  harry  or  vex  us  dead. 

But  pray  to  God  that  he  forgive  us  all. 

The  rain  has  washed  and  laundered  us  all  five, 
And  the  sun  dried  and  blackened;  yea,  perdie, 

Ravens  and  pies  with  beaks  that  rend  and  rive 
Have  dug  our  eyes  out,  and  plucked  off  for  fee 
Our  beards  and  eyebrows;  never  we  are  free. 

Not  once,  to  rest;  but  here  and  there  still  sped, 

Drive  at  its  wild  will  by  the  wind's  change  led. 
More  pecked  of  birds  than  fruits  on  garden-wall; 

Men,  for  God's  love,  let  no  gibe  here  be  said. 
But  pray  to  God  that  He  forgive  us  all. 

Prince  Jesus,  that  of  all  art  lord  and  head, 
Keep  us,  that  hell  be  not  our  bitter  bed; 

We  have  nought  to  do  in  such  a  master's  hall. 
Be  not  ye  therefore  of   our   fellowhead. 

But  pray  to  God  that  he  forgive  us  all. 

(A.  C.  Swinburne.} 


MELLIN   DE   SAINT-GEi^AIS    (1491-1558) 
The  Sonnet  of  the  Mountain 

WHEN  from  afar  these  mountain  tops  I  view, 
I  do  but  mete  mine  own  distress  thereby: 
High  is  their  head,  and  my  desire  is  high; 
Firm   is  their    foot,   my   faith    is   certain,   too. 

E'en  as   the  winds   about  their   summits  blue. 
From  me,  too,  breaks  betimes  the  wistful  sigh; 
And   as    from   them   the   brooks   and   streamlets   hie, 
So  from  mine  eyes  the  tears  run  down  anew. 


MELLIN  DE  SAINT-GELAIS  63 

A  thousand  flocks  upon  them  feed  and  stray; 
As  many  loves  within  me  see  the  day, 
And  all  my  heart  for  pasture  ground  divide. 

No   fruit  have   they,   my   lot   as    fruitless   is; 
And  'twixt  us  now  nought  diverse  is  but  this — 
In  them  the  snows,  in  me  the  fires  abide. 

(Austin  Dobson.) 


CLEMENT   MAROT    (1495-1544) 
The  Posy  Ring 

THIS  on  thy  posy-ring  I've  writ: 
"True   Love  and    Faith" 
For,   failing  Love,  Faith  droops  her  head, 
And  lacking  faith,  why,  love  is  dead 

And's    but    a    wraith. 
But  Death  is  stingless  where  they've  lit 
And  stayed,  whose  names  hereon  I've  writ. 

(Ford  Madox  Hueffer.) 


A  Love-Lesson 

A  SWEET  "No!  no!"  with  a  sweet  smile  beneath 
Becomes  an  honest  girl, — I'd  have  you  learn  it; 
As  for  plain,  "Yes!"  it  may  be  said,  i'   faith. 
Too  plainly  and  too  soft,— pray,  well  discern  it! 

Not  that  I'd  have  my  pleasure  incomplete. 
Or  lose  the  kiss  for  which  my  lips  beset  you; 
But  that  in  suffering  me  to  take  it,  sweet! 
I'd  have  you  say — "No !  no  I  I  will  not  let  you !" 

(Leigh   Hunt.) 


64  CLEMENT  MAROT 

Madame  d' Alberts  Laugh 

YES !   that  fair  neck,   too  beautiful  by  half, 
Those  eyes,  that  voice,  that  bloom,  all  do  her  honor; 
Yet,  after  all,  that  little  giddy  laugh 
Is  what,  in  my  mind,  sits  the  best  upon  her. 

Good  God !  'twould  make  the  very  streets  and  ways. 

Through  which  she  passes,  burst  into  a  pleasure! 

Did  melancholy  come  to  mar  my  days 

And  kill  me  in  the  lap  of  too  much  leisure, 

No  spell  were  wanting,  from  the  dead  to  raise  me, 

But  only  that  sweet  laugh  wherewith  she  slays  me. 

(Leigh   Hunt.) 

JACQUES    TAHUREAU    (1527-1SS5) 
Shadows  of  His  Lady 

WITHIN  the  sand  of  what  far  river  lies 
The  gold  that  gleams  in  tresses  of  my  Lx)ve? 
What  highest  circle  of  the  Heavens  above 
Is  jeweled  with  such  stars  as  are  her  eyes? 
And  where  is  the  rich  sea  vfhose  coral  vies 
With  her  red  lips,  that  cannot  kiss  enough? 
What  dawn-lit  garden  knew  the  rose,  whereof 
The  fled  soul  lives  in  her  cheeks'  rosy  guise? 

What   Parian   marble  that  is   loveliest, 

Can  make  the  whiteness  of  her  brow  and  breast? 

When  drew  she  breath  from  the  Sabaean  glade? 
Oh,  happy  rock  and  river,  sky  and  sea, 
Gardens  and  glades  Sabaean,  all  that  be 

The  far-off  splendid   semblance  of  my  maid. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


JACQUES  TAHUREAU  65 

Moonlight 

THE  high  Midnight  was  garlanding  her  head 
With   many  a  shining  star  in   shining  skies, 
And,  of  her  grace,  a  slumber  on  mine  eyes, 

And,  after   sorrow,   quietness   was  shed. 
Far  in  dim  fields   cicalas  jargoned 
A  thin  shrill  clamor  of  complaints  and  cries; 
And  all  the  woods  were  pallid,  in  strange  wise. 
With  pallor  of  the  sad   moon  overspread. 

Then  came  my  lady  to  that  lonely  place, 
And,  from  her  palfrey  stooping,  did  embrace 

And  hang  upon  my  neck,  and  kissed  me  over; 
Wherefore  the  day  is  far  less  dear  than  night, 
And  sweeter  is  the  shadow  than  the  light, 

Since  night  has  made  me  such  a  happy  lover. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 

JEAN   PASSERAT    (1534-1602) 

The  Lover  and  the  Grasshoppers 

SINCE,  far  away  from  towns  and  from  the  human  race, 
I've  wandered  here  to  this  sad,  solitary  place, 
Where,  grasshoppers,  I  hear  nought  but  your  songs,  that  make 
The  bushes  and  the  grass  with  their  shrill  music  quake. 
And  since  your  life  with  mine  doth  much  in  common  share, 
Let  us,  I  pray,  our  woes  and  our  defaults  compare. 
You  have  but  voice ;  and  I,  alike  to  you  therein. 
But  slow  and  feeble  speech  possess,  for  that  chagrin 
Doth  waste  and  wither  me  and  on  such  wise  bejade 
That  I  am  well-nigh  nought  except  a  walking  shade. 
The  pilgrim  knows  for  sure  that  hotter  weather's  nigh, 
When  you,  among  the  meads,  your  voices  raise  on  high; 
And  'tis  a  certain  sigh  that  ardent  is  my  flame. 
My  lady's  cruelties  when  I  aloud  proclaim. 


66  JEAN  PASSERAT 

Right  plaintively  I've  sung  a  thousand  times  in  vain; 

But  she  respondeth  not  to  her  tormented  swain; 

And  'tis  the  like  with  you,  for  all  of  them  are  dumb. 

You  live  upon  the  dews,  that,  bead  on  pearly  bead, 

The  flowers  and  grasses  store,  and  I,  on  tears  I  feed: 

These  are  the  meat  and  drink  I  feed  on  day  and  night. 

Fate  hath  foreordered  you  to  have  a  feeble  sight. 

Would  God  that  I  had  never  looked  upon  the  skies! 

Then  had  I  never  drunk  Love's  poison  from  her  eyes. 

The  folk,  that  dwell  beneath  Aurora's  bed,  the  sea, 

Inhuman  feed  on  you ;  and  Love  devoureth  me. 

My  flesh  and  nerves  and  bones,  my  sinews  and  my  skin. 

He   still  in  pieces  rends,  that  cruel  mannikin! 

You  have  no  tongue;  and  me  right  treacherously  mine 

Abandons  in  my  need,  as  oft  as  I  incline 

To  tell  my  fair  my  case  and  prove  if  love  and  truth, 

Long,  constant  and  unflecked,  will  in  her  sight  find  ruth. 

These  boughs'  and  bushes'  shade,  though  little,  you  defends 

Against  the  burning  rays  that  Phoebus  hither  sends. 

Poor  I,  alack!  within  I  burn  for  wan  desire 

And  eke,  for  the  noon-heat,  without  I'm  all  afire. 

Nay,  will  or  nill,  to  town  my  steps  I  must  retrace. 

So,  grasshoppers,  farewell!  Farewell,  ye  lovesome  race 

Of  great  Laomedon !  ^   The  herald  of  the  sun. 

Your  bride,*  with  vermeil  hands  that  cleaves  the  darkness  dun, 

Weeping  her  Memnon  slain  ^  and  cjirsing  arms  and  war. 

With  her  most  dulcet  tears  bedew  you  evermore! 

(John  Payne.) 


Canzonet  to  His  Mistress 

SWEETHEART,   thy  beauty's   on   the   wane: 
The  fruit  of  lusty  3'outh,  we  twain 
Together,  let  us  cull,  my  fair : 
Or   e'er  th'  occasion  pass  us  bj% 

^  Tithonus,  son  of  Laomedon,  king  of  Troy,  was  changed  into  a 
grasshopper. 

2  Eos,  the  Dawr. 

'  Memnon,  son  of  Eos  and  Tithonus,  was  slain  by  Achilles  during  the 
siege    of    Troy. 


JEAN  PASSERAT  67 

Our  wishes  let  us  satisfy; 
For  beauty  is  no  keeping-pear. 

Old  age,  the  enemy  of  ease, 
Soon  makes  us  wither,  as  the  breeze, 
That  sheds   abroad   the   full-blown   rose. 
Love  but  with  loving  is  repaid : 
Love,  then,  as  thou  art  loved,  sweet  maid, 
Nor  fear  discovery  to  foes. 

If  thou  of  scandal  frighted  art, 
None  better  knows  than  I,  sweetheart, 
To  hide  an  amorous  emprise; 
A  huntsman  dumb  am  I  and  true; 
And  when  I  have  what  I  ensue, 
I  never  halloo  o'er  the  prize. 

(John  Payne.} 


Love  in  May 

OFF  with  sleep,  love,  up  from  bed, 
This    fair   morn; 
See,  for  our  eyes  the  rosy  red 

New   dawn  is  born; 
Now  that  skies  are  glad  and  gay 
In  this  gracious  month  of  May, 

Love  me,  sweet; 
Fill  my  joy  in  brimming  measure; 
In  this  world  he  hath  no  pleasure 
That  will  none  of  it. 

Come,   love,   through   the   woods  of  spring. 

Come    walk    with    me; 
Listen,    the    sweet    birds    jargoning 

From  tree  to  tree. 
List  and  listen,  over  all 
Nightingale  most   musical 

That  ceases  never; 


68  JEAN  PASSERAT 

Grief  begone,  and  let  us  be 
For  a  space  as  glad  as  he; 
Time's  flitting  ever. 

Old   Time,   that   loves   not   lovers,   wears 

Wings  swift  in  flight; 
All  our  happy  life  he  bears 

Far  in  the  night. 
Old  and  wrinkled  on  a  day, 
Sad  and  weary  shall  you  say, 

"Ah,  fool  was  I, 
That  took  no  pleasure  in  the  grace 
Of  the  flower  that  from  my  face 

Time   has    seen    die." 

Leave  then   sorrow,   teen,   and   tears 

Till  we  be  old; 
Young  we  are,  and  of  our  years 

Till  youth   be  cold. 
Pluck  the  flower;  while  Spring  is  gay 
In  this  happy  month  of   May 

Love  me,  love ; 
Fill    our   joy    in    brimming    measure; 
In   this   world   he    hath   no    pleasure 

That  will  none  thereof. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


PIERRE  DE  RONSARD  (1524-1585) 
Fragment  of  a  Sonnet 

NATURE  withheld  Cassandra  in  the  skies. 
For  more  adornment,  a  full  thousand  years; 
She   took  their   cream   of   Beauty,    fairest  dies, 
And  shaped  and  tinted  her  above  all  Peers : 
Meanwhile   Love  kept   her   dearly   with  his   wings, 
And  underneath  their   shadov/  filled   her  eyes 
With  such  a  richness  that  the  cloudy  Kings 


PIERRE  DE  RONSARD  69 

Of  high  Olympus  uttered  slavish  sighs. 
When  from  the  Heavens   I  saw  her  first  descend, 
My  heart  took  fire,  and  only  burning  pains. 
They  were  my  pleasures — they  my  Life's  sad  end; 
Love  poured   her  beauty   into  my  warm  veins. 

(John  Keats.) 


Roses 

I   SEND  you  here  a  wreath  of  blossoms  blown, 
And  woven  flowers  at  sunset  gathered, 
Another  dawn  had  seen  them  ruined,  and  shed 
Loose  leaves  upon  the  grass  at  random  strown. 
By  this,  their  sure  example,  be  it  known. 
That  all  your  beauties,  now  in  perfect  flower, 
Shall  fade  as  these,  and  wither  in  an  hour. 
Flowerlike,  and  brief  of  days,  as  the  flower  sown. 

Ah,  time  is  flying,  lady,— time  is  flying; 

Nay,  'tis  not  time  that  flies  but  we  that  go. 
Who  in  short  space  shall  be  in  churchyard  lying. 

And  of  our  loving  parley  none  shall  know. 
Nor  any  man  consider  what  we  were ; 
Be  therefore  kind,  my  love,  whilst  thou  art  fair. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


The  Rose 

SEE,  Mignonne,  hath  not  the  Rose, 
That  this  morning  did  unclose 
Her  purple  mantle  to  the  light, 
Lost  before  the  day  be  dead. 
The  glory  of  her  raiment  red, 

Her  color,  bright  as  yours  is  bright? 

Ah,  Mignonne,  in  how  few  hours 
The  petals  of  her  purple  flowers 


70  PIERRE  DE  RONSARD 

All  have  faded,  fallen,  died; 
Sad  Nature,  mother  ruinous, 
That  seest  thy  fair  child  perish  thus 

'Twixt  matin  song  and  even-tide. 

Hear  me,  my  darling,  speaking  sooth, 
Gather  the  fleet  flower  of  your  youth, 

Take  ye  your  pleasure  at  the  best; 
Be  merry  ere  your  beauty  flit, 
For  length  of  days  will  tarnish  it 

Like  roses  that  were  loveliest. 


{Andrew  Lang.) 


To  the  Moon 

HIDE  this  one  night  thy  crescent,  kindly  Moon; 
So  shall  Endymion  faithful  prove,  and  rest 
Loving  and  unawakened  on  thy  breast; 
So  shall  no  foul  enchanter  importune 
Thy  quiet  course;  for  now  the  night  is  boon. 
And  through  the  friendly  night  unseen  I  fare, 
Who  dread  the  face  of  foemen  unaware, 
And  watch  of  hostile  spies  in  the  bright  noon. 

Thou  knowest.  Moon,  the  bitter  power  of  Love; 

'Tis  told  how  shepherd  Pan  found  ways  to  move, 
For  little  price,  thy  heart;  and  of  your  grace. 

Sweet  stars,  be  kind  to  this  not  alien  fire, 

Because  on  earth  ye  did  not  scorn  desire, 
Bethink  ye,  now  ye  hold  your  heavenly  place. 

{Andrew  Lang.) 


To  His  Young  Mistress 

FAIR  flower  of  fifteen  springs,  that  still 
Art  scarcely  blossomed  from  the  bud. 
Yet  hast  such  store  of  evil  will, 


PIERRE  DE  RONSARD  71 

A  heart  so  full  of  hardihood, 

Seeking  to  hide  in  friendly  wise 
The  mischief  of  your  mocking  eyes. 

If  you  have  pity,  child,  give  o'er, 

Give  back  the  heart,  you  stole  from  me, 
Pirate,  setting  so   little  store 
On  this  your  captive  from  Love's  sea. 
Holding  his  misery  for  gain, 
And  making  pleasure  of  his  pain. 

Another,  not  so  fair  of  face, 

But  far  more  pitiful  than  you. 
Would  take  my  heart,  if  of  his  grace, 
My  heart  would  give  her  of  Love's  due; 
And  she  shall  have  it,  since  I  find 
That  you  are  cruel  and  unkind. 

Nay,  I  would  rather  that  I  died. 

Within  your  white  hands  prisoning. 
Would  rather  that  it  still  abide 
In  your  ungentle  comforting, 
Than  change  its  faith,  and  seek  to  her 
That  is  more  kind,  but  not  so  fair. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


Deadly  Kisses 

AH,  take  these  lips  away;  no  more, 
No  more  such  kisses  give  to  me. 
My  spirit  faints  for  joy;  I  see 
Through  mists  of  death  the  dreamy  shore. 
And  meadows  by  the  water-side, 

Where  all  about  the  Hollow  Land 
Fare  the  sweet  singers  that  have  died. 
With  their  lost  ladies,  hand  in  hand; 
Ah,  Love,  how  fireless  are  their  eyes, 


72  PIERRE  DE  RONSARD 

How  pale  their  lips  that  kiss  and  smile. 
So  mine  must  be  in  little  while 
If  thou  wilt  kiss  me  in  such  wise. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


Of  His  Lady's  Old  Age 

WHEN  you  are  very  old,  at  evening 
You'll  sit  and  spin  beside  the  fire,  and  say, 
Humming  my  songs,  "Ah  well,  ah  well-a-day. 
When  I  was  young,  of  me  did  Ronsard  sing." 
None  of  your  maidens  that  doth  hear  the  thing, 
Albeit  with  her  weary  task  foredone, 
But  wakens  at  my  name,  and  calls  you  one 
Blest,  to  be  held  in  long  remembering. 

I  shall  be  low  beneath  the  earth,  and  laid 
On   sleep,  a  phantom   in   the  myrtle   shade, 

While  you  beside  the  fire,  a  grandame  gray, 
My  love,  your  pride,  remember  and  regret; 
Ah,  love  me,  love,  we  may  be  happy  yet, 

And  gather  roses,  while  'tis  called  to-day. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


On  His  Lady's  Waking 

MY  lady  woke  upon  a  morning  fair, 
What  time  Apollo's  chariot  takes  the  skies, 
And,  fain  to  fill  with  arrows  from  her  eyes 
His  empty  quiver,   Love  was   standing  there: 
I  saw  two  apples  that  her  breast  doth  bear 
None  such  the  close  of  the  Hesperides 
Yields;  nor  hath  Venus  any  such  as  these. 
Nor  she  that  had  of  nursling  Mars  the  care. 

Even  such  a  bosom,  and  so  fair  it  was, 
Pure  as  the  perfect  work  of  Phidias, 


PIERRE  DE  RONSARD  73 

That    sad    Andromeda's    discomfiture 
Left  bare,  when  Perseus  passed  her  on  a  day, 
And  pale  as  death  for  fear  of  death  she  lay, 

With  breast  as  marble  cold,  as  marble  pure. 

{Andrew  Lang.) 


His  Lady's  Death 

TWAIN  that  were  foes,  while  Mary  lived,  are  fled; 
One    laurel-crowned    abides    in    heaven,    and    one 
Beneath  the  earth  has  fared,  a  fallen  sun, 
A  light  of  love  among  the  loveless  dead. 
The  first  is  Chastity,  that  vanquished 

The  archer  Love,  that  held  joint  empery 
With  the  sweet  beauty  that  made  war  on  me, 
When  laughter  of  lips  with  laughing  eyes  was  wed. 

Their  strife  the  Fates  have  closed,  with  stern  control, 
The  earth  holds  her  fair  body,  and  her  soul 

An  angel  with  glad  angels  triumpheth ; 
Love  has  no  more  that  he  can  do ;  desire 
Is  buried,  and  my  heart  a  faded  fire. 

And  for  Death's  sake,  I  am  in  love  with  Death. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


His  Lady's  Tomb 

AS  in  the  gardens,  all  through  May,  the  rose, 
Lovely,  and  young,  and   fair  appareled, 
Makes  sunrise  jealous   of  her  rosy  red. 
When   dawn  upon  the   dew  of  dawning  glows; 
Graces  and  Loves  within  her  breast  repose, 
The  woods  are  faint  with  the  sweet  odor  shed. 
Till  rains  and  heavy  suns  have  smitten  dead 
The  languid  flower,  and  the  loose  leaves  unclose, — 

So  this,  the  perfect  beauty  of  our  days. 

When  earth  and  heaven  were  vocal  of  her  praise, 


74,  PIERRE  DE  RONSARD 

The  fates  have  slain,  and  her  sweet  soul  reposes; 
And  tears  I  bring,  and  sighs,  and  on  her  tomb 
Pour  milk,  and  scatter  buds  of  many  a  bloom, 

That  dead,  as  living,  she  may  be  with  roses. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 

And  Lightly,  Like  the  Flowers 

"Ainsi  qu'aux  Aeurs  la  vieillesse, 
Fera  ternir  votre  beaut e." — 

AND   lightly,    like   the   flowers. 
Your  beauties   Age  will  dim. 
Who   makes   the   song   a   hymn, 
And    turns    the    sweets    to    sour. 

Alas,   the   chubby   Hours 

Grow  lank  and  gray  and  grim. 
And   lightly,   like   the    flowers. 

Your  beauties  Age  will  dim. 

Still   rosy  are  the  bowers. 
The   walks  yet   green   and  trim. 
Among   them    let   your   whim 

Pass   sweetly,   like  the   showers. 

And    lightly,    like    the    flowers. 

(W.  E.  Henley.) 

The  Paradox  of  Time 

(A  variation  on  Ronsard) 

he  temps  s'en  va,  le  temps  s'cn  va,  madame! 
Las!  le  temps  non:  mais  "NOUS  nous  en  aliens!^ 

TIME  goes,  you  say?    Ah,  no! 
Alas,  Time  stays,  zue  go; 
Or  else,  were  this  not  so, 
What  need  to  chain  the  hours. 


PIERRE  DE  RONSARD  75 

For   Youth   were   always   ours? 
Time    goes,    you    say? — ah    no! 

Ours  is  the  eyes'  deceit 
Of  men  whose  flying  feet 

Lead   through   some  landscape  low; 
We  pass,  and  think  we  see 
The   earth's   fixed    surface   flee : — 

Alas,  Time  stays, — we  go  ! 

Once   in   the    days   of   old, 
Your  locks   were  curling  gold, 

And   mine    had    shamed   the   crow. 
Now,  in  the  self-same  stage, 
We've  reached  the   silver  age; 

Time  goes,  you  say? — ah,  no! 

Once,   when   my   voice   was    strong, 
I  filled   the  woods   with    song 

To  praise  your  "rose"  and  "snow"; 
My  bird,  that  sang,  is  dead ; 
Where  are  your   roses   fled? 

Alas,    Time    stays, — we   go ! 

See,  in  what  traversed  ways, 
What    backward    Fate    delays 

The  hopes  we  used  to  know; 
Where  are  your  old  desires? — 
Ah,  where  those  vanished  fires? 

Time  goes,  you  say? — ah,  no! 

How   far,  how   far,   O   Sweet, 
The  past  behind  our  feet 

Lies   in   the  even-glow ! 
Now  on  the  forward  way. 
Let  us   fold  hands,  and  pray; 

Alas,  Time  stays, — we  go. 

(Austin  Dobson.) 


76  JOACHIM  DU  BELLAY 

JOACHIM  DU  BELLAY   (1525-1560) 
From  the  Visions 


IT  was  the  time,  when  rest,  soft  sliding  downe 
From  heavens  hight  into  men's  heavy  eyes, 
In  the  forgetfulnes  of  sleepe  doth  drowne 

The  carefull  thoughts  of  mortall  miseries; 
Then  did  a  ghost  before  mine  eyes  appeare, 

On  that  great  rivers  banck,  that  runnes  by  Rome; 
Which,  calling  me  by  name,  bad  me  to  reare 

My  lookes  to  heaven,  whence  all  good  gifts  do  come, 
And  crying  lowd,  "Lo !  now  beholde,"  quoth  bee, 

"What  under  this  great  temple  placed  is: 
Lo,  all  is  nought  but  flying  vanitee!" 

So  I,  that  know  this  world's  inconstancies, 
Sith  onely   God   surmounts   all  times  decay. 
In  God  alone  my  confidence  do  stay. 

II 

On  high  hills  top  I  saw  a  stately  frame, 

An  hundred  cubits  high  by  iust  assize,* 
With  hundreth  pillours  fronting  faire  the  same, 

All  wrought  with  diamond  after  Dorick  wize: 
Nor  brick  nor  marble  was  the  wall  in  view, 

But  shining  christall,  which  from  top  to  base 
Out  of  her  womb  a  thousand  rayons  ^  threw, 

One  hundred  steps  of  Af rike  golds  encliase : 
Golde  was  the  parget^;  and   the  seeling  bright 

Did  shine  all  scaly  with  great  plates  of  golde; 
The  flloore  of  iasp  and  emeraude  was  dight. 

O,  worlds  vainesse !  Whiles  thus  I  did  behold, 
An  earthquake  shooke  the  hill  from  lowest  seat. 
And  overthrew  this  frame  with  ruine  great. 

^  Measure. 

*  Beams,    rays. 

'  Varnish,  plaster. 


JOACHIM  DU  BELLAY  77 


III 


Then  did  a  sharped  spyre  of  diamond  bright, 

Ten  feete  each  way  in  square,  appeare  to  mee, 
lustly  proportion'd  up  unto  his  hight, 

So    far   as   archer   might   his   level   see : 
The  top  thereof  a  pot  did  seeme  to  beare, 

Made  of  the  mettall  which  we  most  do  honour; 
And  in  this  golden  vessel  couched  weare 

The  ashes  of  a  mightie  emperour : 
Upon  foure  corners  of  the  base  were  pight,* 

To  beare  the  frame,  foure  great  lyons  of  gold; 
A  worthy  tombe  for  such  a  worthy  wight. 

Alas !  this  world   doth  nought  but  grievance  hold ! 
I   saw  a  tempest   from  the  heaven   descend. 
Which  this  brave  monument  with  flash  did  rend. 

IV 

I  saw   raysde  up   on  yvorie   pillowes  tall, 

Whose  bases  were  of  richest  mettalls  warke. 
The  chapters  alabaster,   the   fryses  christall, 

The  double  front  of  a  triumphall  arke: 
On  each  side  purtraid  was  a  Victorie, 

Clad  like  a  nimph,  that  winges  of  silver  weares, 
And  in  triumphant  chayre  was  set  on  hie 

The  auncient  glory  of  the  Romaine  peares. 
No  worke  it  seem'd  of  earthly  craftsmans  wit, 

But  rather  wrought  by  his  owne  industry, 
That  thunder-dartes  for  love  his  syre  doth  fit. 

Let  me  no  more  see  faire  thing  under  sky, 
Sith  that  mine  eyes  have  scene  so  faire  a  sight 
With  sodain  fall  to  dust  consumed  quight. 

V 

Then  was  the  faire  Dodonian  tree  far  scene 

Upon  seaven  hills  to  spread  his  gladsome  gleame, 
*  Placed. 


78  JOACHIM  DU  BELLAY 

And    conquerours    bedecked    with    his    greene, 

Along  the  bancks   of  the  Ausonian   streamer 
There   many  an  auncient   trophee  was  addrest, 

And  many  a  spoyle,  and  many  a  goodly  show. 
Which  that  brave  races  greatnes  did  attest, 

That  whilome  from  the  Troyan  blood  did  flow. 
Ravisht  I  was  so  rare  a  thing  to  vew; 

When,  lo!  a  barbarous  troupe  of  clownish  fone" 
The  honour  of  these  noble  boughs  down  threw: 

Under  the  wedge  I  heard  the  tronck  to  grone; 
And,   since,   I    saw  the  roote  in  great   disdaine 

A  twinne  of  forked  trees  send  forth  againe. 

VI 

I  saw  a  woIfe  under  a  rockie  cave 

Noursing  two  whelpes ,  I  saw  her  little  ones 
In    wanton    dalliance    the    teate    to   crave, 

While  she  her  neck  wreath'd  from  them  for  the  nones': 
I  saw  her  raunge  abroad  to  seeke  her  food, 

And,  roming  through  the  field  with  greedie  rage, 
T'  embrew  her  teeth  and  clawes  with  lukewarm  blood 

Of  the  small  heards,  her  thirst  for  to  asswage: 
I  saw  a  thousand  huntsmen,  which  descended 

Downe  from  the  mountaines  bordring  Lombardie, 
That  with  an  hundred  speares  her  flank  wide  rended: 

I   saw  her  on  the  plaine  outstretched   lie. 
Throwing  out  thousand  throbs  in  her  owne  soyle; 
Soone  on  a  tree  uphang'd  I  saw  her  spoyle. 

(Spencer.) 

Hymn  to  the  TV  hid  s 

(The  winds  are  invoked  by  the  winnowers  of  corn) 

TO  you,  troop  so  fleet. 
That   with   winged   wandering   feet. 
Through  the  wide  world  pass, 

*  Foes. 

•  For  the  nonce,  for  the  occasion. 


JOACHIM  DU  BELLAY  79 

And   with   soft   murmuring 
Toss  the  green  shades  of  spring 

In  woods  and  grass, 
Lily  and  violet 
I    give,    and    blossoms    wet, 

Roses  and  dew; 
This    branch    of    blushing   roses, 
Whose  fresh  bud  uncloses, 

Wind-flowers,    too. 
Ah,   winnow   with   sweet  breath, 
Winnow    the    holt    and    heath, 

Round  this  retreat; 
Where  all  the  golded  morn 
We  fan  the  gold  o'  the  corn, 

In  the   sun's  heat. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


A  Vow  to  Heavenly  Venus 

WE  that  with  like  hearts  love,  we  lovers  twain, 
New  wedded  in  the  village  by  thy  fane. 
Lady  of  all  chaste  love,  to  thee  it  is 
We   bring   these   amaranths,    these   white   lilies, 
A   sign,   and   sacrifice;   may   Love,   we  pray, 
Like  amaranthine  flowers,   feel  no  decay; 
Like    these    cool    lilies    may    our    loves    remain, 
Perfect  and  pure,  and  know  not  any  stain ; 
And  be  our  hearts,  from  this  thy  holy  hour, 
Bound  each  to  each,  like  flower  to  wedded  flower. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


To  His  Friend  in  Elysium 

SO  long  you  wandered  on  the  dusky  plain. 
Where  flit  the  shadows  with  their  endless  cry. 
You  reach  the  shore  where  all  the  world  goes  by, 
You  leave  the  strife,  the  slavery,  the  pain; 


80  JOACHIM  DU  BELLAY 

But  we,  but  we,  the  mortals  that  remain 
In  vain  stretch  hands;   for  Charon  sullenly 

Drives  us  afar,  we   may  not  come  anigh 

Till  that  last  mystic  obolus  we  gain. 

But  you  are  happy  in  the  quiet  place. 

And  with  the  learned  lovers  of  old  days, 
And  with  your  love,  you  wander  evermore 

In  the  dim  woods,  and  drink  forgetfulness 

Of  us  your  friends,  a  weary  crowd  that  press 
About  the  gate,  or  labor  at  the  oar. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


A  Sonnet  to  Heavenly  Beauty 

IF  this  our  little  life  is  but  a  day 
In  the  Eternal, — if  the  years  in  vain 
Toil  after  hours  that  never  come  again, — 
If  everything  that  hath  been  must  decay, 
Why  dreamest  thou  of  joys  that  pass  away, 
My  soul,  that  my  sad  body  doth  restrain? 
Why  of  the  moment's  pleasure  art  thou  fain? 
Nay,  thou  hast  wings, — nay,  seek  another  stay. 

There  is  the  joy  where  to  each  soul  aspires. 
And  there  the  rest  that  all  the  world  desires. 

And  there  is  love,  and  peace,  and  gracious  mirth; 
And  there  in  the  most  highest  heavens  shalt  thou 
Behold  the  Very  Beauty,  whereof  now 

Thou  worshippest  the  shadow  upon  earth. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


Rome 

OTHOU  newcomer  who  seek'st  Rome  in  Rome 
And  find'st  in  Rome  no  thing  thou  canst  call  Roman; 
Arches  worn  old  and  palaces  made  common, 
Rome's  name  alone  within  these  walls  keeps  home. 


LOUISE  LABE  81 

Behold  how  pride  and  ruin  can  befall 

One  who  hath  set  the  whole  world  'neath  her  laws, 

All-conquering,  now  conquered,  because 

She  is  Time's  prey  and  Time  consumeth  all. 

Rome  that  are  Rome's  one  sole  last  monument, 
Rome  that  alone  hast  conquered  Rome  the  town, 
Tiber  alone,  transient  and   seaward  bent. 
Remains  of  Rome.     O  world,  thou  unconstant  mine. 
That  which  stands  firm  in  thee  Time  batters  down, 
And  that  which  fleeteth  doth  outrun  swift  time. 

(Ezra  Pound.) 


LOUISE  LABE   (1526-1566) 
Povre  Ame  Amoureuse 

(Sapphics) 

WHEN  to  my  lone  soft  bed  at  eve  returning 
Sweet  desir'd  sleep   already  stealeth  o'er  me, 
My    spirit    flieth    to   the    fairy-land    of    her    tyrannous    love. 

Him  then  I  think  fondly  to  kiss,  to  hold  him 

Frankly  then  to  my  bosom ;  I  that  all  day 

Have  looked  for  him  suffering,  repining,  yea  many  long  days. 

O  bless'd  sleep,  with  flatteries  beguile  me ; 
So,  if  I  n'er  may  of  a  surety  have  him, 

Grant  to  my  poor  soul  amorous  the  dark  gift  of  this  illusion. 

(Robert  Bridges.) 

Long  As  I  Still  Can  Shed  Tears 

LONG  as  I  still  can  shed  tears  from  mine  eyes 
My  bliss  with  thee  regretting  once  again. 
And  while  my  voice,  though  in  a  weaker  strain, 
Can  speak  a  little,  checking  sobs  and  sighs, — 


82  REMY  BELLEAU 

Long  as  my  hand  can  tune  the  harmonies 
Of  my  bold  lute  to  sing  thy  grace  fain, 
And  while  my   spirit   shall   content   remain, 

Thee  understanding,  nothing  else  to  prize, 

So  long  I  do  not  yet  desire  to  die; 
But  when  I  feel  mine  eyes  are  growing  dry, 
Broken  my  voice,  my  hand  devoid  of  skill, 

My  spirit  in  this  its  dwelling-place  of  clay 

Able  no  more  to  shew  I  love  thee  still, 

I  shall  pray  Death  to  blot  my  clearest  day. 

(Arthur  Piatt.) 


REMY  BELLEAU   (1528-1577) 
April 

APRIL,  pride  of  woodland  ways, 
Of  glad   days, 
April,  bringing  hope  and  prime. 
To  the  young  flowers  that  beneath 
Their  bud  sheath 
Are  guarded  in  their  tender  time; 

April,  pride  of  fields  that  be 

Green  and  free, 
That  in   fashion  glad  and  gay. 
Stud  with  flowers  red  and  blue. 

Every  hue. 
Their  jeweled  spring  array; 

April,  pride  of  murmuring 

Winds  of  spring. 
That  beneath  the  winnowed  air, 
Trap  with  subtle  nets  and  sweet 

Flora's   feet. 
Flora's  feet,  the  fleet  and  fair; 


REMY  BELLEAU  83 

April,  by  thy  hand  caressed. 

From  her  breast 
Nature  scatters  everywhere 
Handfuls  of  all  sweet  perfumes. 

Buds  and  blooms, 
Making  faint  the  earth  and  air. 

April,  joy  of  the  green  hours, 

Clothes  with  flowers 
Over  all   her  locks  of  gold 
My  sweet  lady ;  and  her  breast 

With   the   blest 
Buds  of  summer  manifold, 

April,  with  thy  gracious  wiles, 

Like  the  smiles, 
Smiles  of  Venus;  and  thy  breath 
Like  her  breath,  the  gods'  delight, 

(From  their   height 
They  take  the  happy  air  beneath;) 

It  is  thou  that,  of  thy  grace, 

From  their  place 
In  the  far-off  isles  dost  bring 
Swallows  over  earth  and  sea, 

Glad   to  be 
Messengers  of  thee,  and  Spring. 

Daffodil   and   eglantine, 

And  woodbine, 
Lily,    violet,    and    rose 
Plentiful  in  April  fair. 

To  the  air. 
Their  pretty  petals  do  unclose. 

Nightingales  ye  now   may  hear, 

Piercing  clear, 
Singing  in  the  deepest  shade; 
Many  and  many  a  babbled  note 


84  REMY  BELLEAU 

Chime  and  float, 
Woodland  music  through  the  glade. 

April,  all  to  welcome  thee, 

Spring  sets  free 
Ancient  flames,  and  with  low  breath 
Wakes  the  ashes  gray  and  old 

That  the  cold 
Chilled   within   our   hearts  to   death. 

Thou    beholdest    in    the    warm 

Hours,   the    swarm 
Of  the  thievish  bees,  that  flies 
Evermore  from  bloom  to  bloom 

For   perfume. 
Hid  away  in  tiny  thighs. 

Her  cool  shadows  May  can  boast, 

Fruits  almost 
Ripe,   and   gifts   of    fertile   dew. 
Manna-sweet  and  honey-sweet, 

That  complete 
Her  flower  garland  fresh  and  new. 

Nay,  but  I   will  give  my  praise, 

To  these  days. 
Named  with  the  glad  name  of  Her' 
That  from  out  the  foam  o'  the  sea 

Came  to  be 
Sudden  light  on  earth  and  air. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


In  Praise  of  Wine 
I 

WHEN   the  brimming  bowl   I  drain. 
Every  care  and  every  pain. 
All  chagrin  and  all  despite, 

Aphrodite- Avril. 


REMY  BELLEAU  85 

Fall  to  sleep  in  me  forthright. 
What  availeth   me  complain 
For  that  Death  will  me  constrain 
And  against  my  will  one  day 
Me  upon  the  bier  will  lay? 
Troubled    must    I    therefore    be 
And    my    life    forwandred    see? 
Nay,   I   will  but  drink  the  more. 
Come,  companions,  up  and  pour; 
Since,    whene'er    I    drain    the    bowl, 
Every  pine  and  every  dole, 
All  chagrin  and  all  despite, 
Fall  to  sleep  in  me  forthright 

II 

My  troubles  in  me  die 
Forthright,  as  soon  as  I 
This  sacred  liquor  let 
My  thirsty  gullet  wet. 
Fain  frolic  would   I   sing 
And    richer   than   a   king 
I  boast  me,  more  of  store 
Than  Crcesus  was  of  yore. 
Prone   on    my   breast   reclined. 
With  ivy-trails  I  bind 
And   wreathe  my  grizzled   hairs. 
My  sorrows  and  my  cares 
Beneath   my  feet  I   tread 
And  cast  them  to  the  dead. 
Let  who   so  will  take  arms, 
Glory,  in  war's  alarms, 
For  duty's  sake  to  buy: 
For  me,  fain  drink  would  I. 
Up,  page,  then,  quick,  and  brim 
The  bowl  up  to  the  rim ; 
For  better  drunk  to  bed 
To  go  it  is  than  dead. 

(John  Payne.) 


86  REMY  BELLEAU 

Love  and  Money 

MISFORTUNE  'tis  to  love  at  all 
And  worse  misfortune  not  to  love: 
But  one's  heart  wish  to  lack  above 
All  ills  is  worst  that  can  befall. 

Lineage  for  lovers  nothing  can; 
Love  tramples  rank  beneath  his  car; 
Wit,  virtue,  breeding,  to  the  man, 
Who  hath  but  wealth,  superfluous  are. 

Ah,  would  to  heav'n  the  miser  might 
Die  wretchedly,  who  men  for  prey 
To  scurvy  money  did  bewray 
And  first  accounted  it  for  right! 

For  wars  and  death  on  dreadful  ways 
It  still  hath  furthered  in  their  course; 
And  wretched  lovers   (which  is  worse) 
Because  thereof   do  end  their  days. 

(John  Payne.) 


PHILIP  DESPORTES   (1545-1606) 

Sonnet 

CAN  it  be  true  that  I've  so  much  endured  whilere 
For  eyes  I  see  to-day  without  or  joy  or  pain? 
Where  are  the   charms  that  wove  for  me  so   fast  a  chain? 
What  of  her  locks  is  come,  her  crispy  golden  hair? 
Upon  her  faded  face  with  open  mouth  I  stare, 
Whose  bloom  did  her  of  old  inspire  with  such  disdain; 
And  in  myself  I  scoff  at  my  pursuit  in  vain 
And  render  thanks  to  Time,  that  loosed  me  from  the  snare. 
No  absence  nor  rebuffs,  availed  in  me  to  do. 
The  course  of   Time  hath  done,   that  put  my  love  to  rout 


PHILIP  DESPORTES  87 

And  made  me  sage  at  last,  healing  my  spirit's  smart. 
For,  whenas  from  your  face  the  roses  he  did  out, 
The  thorns  he  rooted  up,  on  like  wise,  from  ray  heart. 

(John  Payne.) 

The  Dream 

SHE  whom  I  love  so  dear,  in  dreams,  unto  my  bed, 
Her  cruelty  put  by,  to  cheer  me  came  last  night. 
Sweet  was  her  speech,  her  eyes  of  laughter   full  and  light. 
And  many  a  thousand  Loves  went  fluttering  round  her  head. 

Courage,  by  dolor  urged,  I  took,  with  woeful  breath 
To  make  complaint  aloud  anent  her  heart  of  stone, 
And  with  a  tearful  eye,  for  ruth  to  her  did  moan 
And  prayed  her  end  my  woes  with  pity  or  with  death. 

Her  kiss-compelling  lips  soft-opening,  thus  she  spoke 
To  me  with  dulcet   speech  and  answered,   "Cease  thy  sighs 
"And  tears  no  longer  thus  force  from  thy  wounded  eyes : 
"She  who  hath  caused  thine  ill  can  heal  the  heart  she  broke." 

Alack,  illusion  sweet!  Ah,  pleasant  miracle! 
How  little  durable  it  is,  a  lover's  bliss! 
Me  miserable,  alas !  Thinking  her  eyes  to  kiss, 
Little  by  Httle,  wake  I  felt  my  dream  dispel. 

Yet,  by  a  dear  deceit,  long  time  thereafter,  still 
Mine  eyes  fast  shut  I  kept  nor  might  my  dream  forsake; 
But  my  sleep  passed  away  and  come  the  hour  of  wake, 
I  found  my  gladness  false  and  real  but  mine  ill. 

(John  Payne.) 

Sonnet 

WHEN,  you  and   I,  we  shall  have  passed  th'  infernal 
stream, 
Damn'd,  for  our  several  sins,  unto  the  deeps  of  hell, 
I  for  idolatry,  that  loved  your  eyes  o'er  well, 


88  THEOPHILE  DE  VIAU 

You,  for  my  heart  you  slew  with  cruelty  extreme, 
If  your  fair  eyes  I  see  forever  on  me  beam, 
Neither  the  eternal  night  nor  pine  unquenchable 
My  courage  shall  confound  nor  all  the  pains  that  dwell 
In   those  infernal   deeps  shall  cruel   to   me   seem. 
You,  too,  if  pleasure  yet  you  take  in  your  disdains 
And  in  my  miseries,  still  may  moderate  your  pains 
With  watching  me  endure  the  torments  of  my  doom. 
But,  since,  on  divers  ways,  we  in  this  world  above 
Sinned,  you  for  sheer  despite  and  I  for  too  much  love, 
I  fear  they'll  sunder  us,  each  in  a  several  room. 

(John  Payne.) 


THEOPHILE  DE  VIAU  (1591-1626) 
Sleep 

J'VE  kissed  thee,  sweetheart,  in  a  dream  at  least. 
And  though  the  core  of  love  is  in  me  still. 
This  joy,  that  in  my  sense  did  softly  thrill, 
The  ardor  of  my  longing  hath  appeased 
And  by  this  tender  strife  rny  spirit,  eased, 
And  half  consoled,  I  soothe  myself,  until 
I  find  my  heart  from  all  its  pai?i  released. 
My  senses,  hushed,  begin  to  fall  on  sleep. 
Slumber,  for  which  two  weary  nights  I  weep. 
Takes  thy  dear  place  at  last  within  my  eyes. 
And  though  so  cold  he  is,  as  all  men  vow, 
For  me  he  breaks  his  natural  icy  guise. 
And  shows  himself  more  warm  and  fond  than  thou. 

(Edmund  Gosse.) 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE  89 

PIERRE  CORNEILLE  (1606-1684) 

Les  Ravages  du   Temps 

(^Marquise,  si  mon  visage 
A  quelques  traits  un  peu  vieux.) 

IF  in  me,   my  lady,  traces 
Of  an  aging  look  you  view, 
Think,  hov/,  at  my  years,  your  graces 
Shall  be  at  a  discount,  too. 

Time  with  flouting  glee  disposes 

Of  whate'er  seems  fairest  now; — 
Nor  will  spare  to  blight  your  roses, 

As  his  lines  have  marked  my  brow. 

Yet  have   I    some   charms   unfailing 

Of   a  later  lustier  prime 
Than  need  stoop,  methinks,  to  quailing 

At  those  ravages  of  Time. 

You   have   grandeur   like   a   goddess; — 
But  these  gifts  you  mark  with  scorn 

May  endure,  when  bust  and  bodice, 
Flaunting  there,  are  long  outworn. 

Theirs  'twill  be,  soft  eyes  of  laughter 

From  oblivion  to  redeem ; — 
Limning,   centuries  hereafter, 

What   I   choose   to    make   you   seem. 

With  that  unborn  generation 

Where  some  voice  shall  be  mine, 
Your  proud  beauty's  reputation 

Shall  be — just  what  I  assign. 

(James  Robertson.) 


90  LA  FONTAINE 

LA   FONTAINE    (1621-1695) 
The  Cock  and  the  Fox 

UPON   a  tree  there   mounted  guard 
A  veteran  cock,  adroit  and  cunning; 
When  to  the  roots  a  fox  up  running 

Spoke  thus,  in  tones  of  kind  regard: — 
"Our  quarrel,  brother,  's  at  an   end; 
Henceforth  I  hope  to  live  your  friend; 
For   peace   now   reigns 
Throughout  the  animal  domains. 
I  bear  the  news.     Come  down,  I  pray. 
And  give  me  the  embrc^ce  fraternal; 

And  please,  my  brother,   don't  delay: 
So  much  the  tidings  do  concern  all, 

That  I  must  spread  them  far  to-day. 
Now  you  and  yours  can  take  your  walks 
Without  a   fear  or  thought  of   hawks; 
And  should  you  clash  with  them  or  others, 
In  us  you'll  find  the  best  of  brothers; — 
For  which  you  may,  this  joyful  night, 
Your  merry  bonfires  light. 
But,  first,  let's  seal  the  bliss 
With  one  fraternal  kiss.'' 
"Good  friend,"  the  cock  replied,  "upon  my  word, 
A  better  thing  I  never  heard ; 
And  doubly  I   rejoice 
To  hear  it  from  your  voice: 
And,  really,  there  must  be  something  in  it, 

For  yonder  come  two  greyhounds,  which,  I  flatter 
Myself,  are  couriers  on  this  very  matter ; 
They  come  so  fast,  they'll  be  here  in  a  minute. 
I'll  down,  and  all  of  us  will  seal  the  blessing 
With  general  kissing  and  caressing." 
"Adieu,"  said  Fox;  "my  errand's  pressing; 
I'll  hurry  on  my  way, 
And  we'll  rejoice  some  other  day." 


LA  FONTAINE  91 

So  off  the  fellow  scampered,  quick  and  light, 
To  gain  the  fox-holes  of  a  neighboring  height, — 
Less   happy   in   his    stratagem   than    flight. 

The  cock  laughed  sweetly  in  his  sleeve; — 

'Tis  doubly  sweet  deceiver  to  deceive. 

(E.  Wright.) 


Love  and  Folly 

LOVE'S  worshippers  alone  can  know 
The  thousand  mysteries  that  are  his; 
His  blazing  torch,   his  twanging  bow. 

His  blooming  age  are  mysteries. 
A   charming   science — ^but   the   day 

Were  all  too  short  to  con  it  o'er; 
So  take  of  me  this  little  lay, 
A  sample   of   its   boundless   lore. 

As  once,  beneath  the  fragrant  shade 

Of  myrtles  fresh  in  heaven's  pure  air. 
The  children.  Love  and  Folly,  played, 

A  quarrel   rose  betwixt  the  pair. 
Love  said  the  gods   should  do  him  right — 

But  Folly  vowed  to  do  it  then, 
And  struck  him,  o'er  the  orbs  of  sight. 

So  hard  he  never  saw  again. 

His  lovely  mother's  grief  was  deep. 

She  called  for  vengeance  on  the  deed; 
A  beauty  does   not  vainly  weep, 

Nor   coldly   does    a   mother    plead. 
A  shade  came  o'er  the  eternal  bliss 

That  fills  the  dwellers  of  the  skies; 
Even  stony-hearted  Nemesis 

And  Rhadamanthus  wiped  their  eyes. 

"Behold,"  she  said,  "this  lovely  boy," 
While  streamed  afresh  her  graceful  tears — 


92  LA  FONTAINE 

"Immortal,  yet   shut  out   from  joy 
And   sunshine,  all  his   future   years. 

The  child  can  never  take,  you   see, 
A  single  step  without  a  staff — 

The  hardest  punishment  would  be 
Too  lenient  for  the  crime  by  half." 


All  said  that  Love  had  suffered  wrong. 

And  well  that  wrong  should  be  repaid; 
Then  weighed  the  public  interest  long. 

And  long  the  party's  interest  weighed. 
And  thus  decreed  the  court  above : 

"Since  Love  is  blind  from  Folly's  blow, 
Let  Folly  be  the  guide  of  Love, 

Where'er  the  boy  may  choose  to  go." 

(W.  C.  Bryant.) 


JEAN-BAPTISTE    POQUELIN    MOLIERE    (1622-1673) 

To  Monsieur  de  la  Mothe  le  Vayer 
(Upon  the  death  of  his  son) 

LET  thy  tears,  Le  Vayer,  let  them  flow; 
None  of  scant  cause  thy  sorrowing  can  accuse, 
Since,  losing  that  which  thou  for  aye  dost  lose. 
E'en  the  most  wise  might  find  a  ground  for  woe. 


Vainly  we  strive  with  precepts  to  forego 
The  drops  of  pity  that  are   Pity's  dues; 
And  Nature's  self,  indignant,  doth  refuse 
To  count  for  fortitude  that  heartless  show. 


No  grief,  alas!  can  now  bring  back  again 
The  son  tou  dear,  by  Death  untimely  ta'en; 
Yet,  not  the  less,  his  loss  is  heard  to  bear, 


JEAN-BAPTISTE  MOLIERE  93 

Graced  as  he  was  by  all  the  world  reveres, 
Large  heart,  keen  wit,  a  lofty  soul  and  rare, 
— Surely  these  claim  eternity  of  tears ! 

(Austin  Dobson.) 

JEAN    RACINE    (1639-1699) 
From  the  Chorus  of  "Athalie" 

The  Chorus: 

THE  God  whose  goodness  filleth  every  clime, 
Let   all    His   creatures   worship   and   adore; 
Whose  throne  was  reared  before  the  birth  of  time, 
To  him  be  glory  now  and  evermore. 

One  Voice: 
The  sons  of  violence  in  vain 
Would  check  his  people's  grateful  strain. 

And  blot  his  sacred  name; 
Yet  day  to  day  his  power  declares. 
His  bounty  every  creature  shares, 

His  greatness  all  proclaim. 

Another  Voice: 

Dispensing  light  and  life  at  his  behest, 

Burst  forth  the  sun  by  him  in  splendor  drest; 

But  of   almighty  love  a  brighter  sign, 

Shone   forth   thy  law,   pure,   perfect,  and   divine. 

(Charles  Randolph.) 

VOLTAIRE   (1694-1778) 
Stanzas  Upon  the  Epic  Poets 

THE  ancient  Homer  I  admire, 
Replete  with  faults,  but  full  of  fire; 
He,  like  the  heroes  of  his  time. 
Is  a  great  prattler,  but  sublime. 


Q4!  VOLTAIRE 

Virgil  could  greater  charms  impart 
To  poetry,   and   had  more  art : 
But  he  his  fire  with  Dido  spends, 
And    with    Lavinia    coldly    ends. 

Too  much  of  magic  and  false  graces, 
Tasso,  below  both  poets,  places; 
But  his  two  heroines'  heavenly  charms 
Have  force  that  critic  rage  disarms. 

Milton,  tho'  more  sublime  than  these, 
Does  not  so  much  a  reader  please: 
He  wrote  in  strange  fantastic  flights, 
For  madmen,  angels,  hellish   sprites. 

'Twould  be  presumption  but  to  name 
Myself  with  bards  so  dear  to  fame; 
'Tis  death  alone  that  can  decree 
What  place   shall   be   consigned   to   me. 

You,  who  by  wit  and  beauty  shine. 
Who  charm  the  world  by  grace  divine; 
In  your  affections,  if  I  find 
A    place,    I'm   first   of    human  kind. 

(Tobias  Smollett?) 


ANDRE  CHENIER  (1760-1794) 

Elegies 

I 

EVERY  man  has  his  sorrows;  yet  each  still 
Hides  under  a  calm  forehead  his  own  will. 
Each  pities  but  himself.     Each  in  his  grief 
Envies  his  neighbor:   he  too  seeks   relief; 
For  one  mar's  pain  is  of  no  other  known: 
They  hide  their  sorrows  as  he  hides  his  own; 


ANDRE  CHENIER  95 

And  each,  with  tears  and  aching  heart,  can  sigh: 
All  other  men  are  happy,  hut  not  I. 
They  are  unhappy  all.     They,  desolate. 
Cry  against  heaven  and  bid  heaven  change  their  fate. 
Their  fate  is  changed;  they  soon,  with  fresh  tears,  know 
have  but  changed  one  for  another  woe.     ^ 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


II 


\They 


A   white    nymph    wandering    in    the    woods    by    night 
Spies  a  swift  satyr,  and  pretends  a  flight; 
She  runs,  and,  running,  feigns  to  call  him  back! 
The  goat-foot,    following   on   her    flying   track. 
Falls  down  and  flounders  in  the  stagnant  pool : 
Whereat  they,  while  he  whimpers,  mock  the  fool. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


Ill 


Well,  I  would  have  it  so.     I  should  have  known 
How  many  times  I  made  her  v/ill  my  own. 
For  once,  at  least,  I  should  have  let  her  be, 
And  waited,  till  I  made  her  come  to  me. 
No.     I   forget  what   fretful  cries  last  night 
Drove  me  to  bitter  silence  and  to  flight; 
This  morning,  O  weak  heart,  I  long 
To  have  her  back,  yet  do  her  pride  no  wrong. 

I  fly  to  her,  take  all  her  wrongs,  but  she 

Whom    I    would    pardon    will    not   pardon    me. 

I  it  is  who  am   false,   unjust,  and  seek 

To  show  my  horrid  strength  where  she  is  weak. 

And    floods    and    tempest    come,    and    tears    that   flow 

Obediently,  as  she  would  have  them  go. 

And   I,  to  have  some  peace,   must  own  defeat, 

Kneel  down,  and  take  her  pardon  at  her  feet. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


96  ANDRE  CHENIER 

The  Young  Captive 

THE  green  ear  ripes  while  the   sickle  stays, 
The  ungathered  grape,  clustering  in  summer  days, 
Drinks  the  dawn's  dewy  boon ; 
Like  theirs  my  beauty  is,  my  youth  like  theirs, 
And  though  the  present  hour  has  griefs  and  cares 
I  would  not  die  so  soon. 

Let  tearless  Stoics  seek  the  arms  of  Death! 

I  weep  and  hope;  before  the  black  wind's  breath 

I  bend,  then  raise  my  head. 
Among  my  bitter  days  some  sweet  I  find ! 
What  honey  leaves  no  satiate  taste  behind? 

What  seas  no  tempest  dread? 

Life's  fresh  illusion  dwells  within  my  breast. 
My   limbs   in   vain   these   prison-walls   invest; 

Hope   ever  gives   me   wings. 
As  when,  escape  the  cruel  fowler's  snare, 
More  light,  more  joyful  in  the  fields  of  air 

Philomel  soars  and  sings.* 

Why  should  I  wish  to  die?    From  peaceful  sleep 
Peaceful  I  wake;  not  with  remorse  I  weep, 

Nor  crimes  my  rest   destroy. 
My  welcome  to  the  dawn  in  all  things  smiles ; 
On  somber  brows  my  look  almost  beguiles 

A   reawakening  joy. 

I  seem  so  far  from  the  bright  journey's  end! 
These  elms  that  fringe  the  path  on  which  I  wend 

Stretch    forth    in    endless    rows. 
Fresh  at  the  feast  of  life,  like  a  new  guest. 
One  moment  only  my  fond  lips  have  pressed 

The   cup    that    overflows. 

'  The  young   captive   says  Philomele,   but  perhaps  she   is  thinking  of 
the  dark. 


f 


ANDRE  CHENIER  97 

'Tis  spring;  the  harvest  is  not  yet  begun; 
From  season  to  new  season,  like  the  sun, 

I  would  fulfill  my  year. 
Flower  of   life's  garden,   shining  on  the  bright 
Spray,  scarce  have  I  beheld  the  morning  light. 

And  noon  is  not  yet  near. 

Death,  come  not  nigh  me  now.  .  .  .  depart,  depart! 
Console  the  sons  of  fear  and  shame  whose  heart 

Sinks   in   despair's  pale  swoon : 
To  me,  green  Pales  with  her  flock  belongs, 
The  Loves  with  kisses,  and  the  Muses'  songs;- 

I  would  not  die  so  soon. 

(W.  J.  Robertson.) 

Communion  of  Saints 

WHAT  happy  bonds  together  unite  you,  ye  living  and 
dead. 
Your  fadeless  love-bloom,  your  manifold  memories. 

(Robert  Bridges.) 


JOSEPH  ROUGET-DE-L'ISLE   (1760-1836) 
The  Marseilles  Hymn 

YE   sons   of    France,   awake   to  glory! 
Hark !  hark !  what  myriads  bid  you  rise ! 
Your  children,   wives,   and   grandsires   hoary, — 

Behold  their  tears  and  hear  their  cries ! 
Shall  hateful  tyrants,  mischief  breeding, 
With  hireling  hosts,  a  ruffian  band, 
Affright  and  desolate  the  land, 
While  liberty  and  peace  lie  bleeding? 


To  arms !  to  arms !  ye  brave ! 
The  avenging  sword  unsheathe! 


98  JOSEPH  ROUGET-DE-L'ISLE 

March  on!  march  on!  all  hearts  resolved 
On  victory  or  death! 

Now,  now,  the  dangerous  storm  is  rolling, 

Which  treacherous  kings  confederate  raise; 
The  dogs  of  war,  let  loose,  are  howHng, 

And,  lo!  our  fields  and  cities  blaze. 
And  shall  we  basely  view  the  ruin, 

While  lawless  force,  with  guilty  stride, 

Spreads  desolation  far  and  wide, 
With  crimes  and  blood  his  hands  imbruing? 

To  arms!  to  arms!  ye  brave!  &c. 

With  luxury  and  pride  surrounded, 

The  bold,  insatiate  despots  dare — 
Their  thirst  of  gold  and  power  unbounded — 

To  mete  and  vend  the  light  and  air. 
Like  beasts  of  burden  would  they  load  us, 

Like  gods  would  bid  their  slaves  adore; 

But  man  is  man,  and  who  is  more? 
Then  shall  they  longer  lash  and  goad  us? 

To  arms!  to  arms!  ye  brave!  &c. 

O    Liberty,   can   man    resign   thee. 

Once  having  felt  thy  generous  flame? 
Can  dungeons,  bolts,  or  bars  confine  thee, 

Or  whips  thy  noble  spirit  tame? 
Too  long  the  world  has  wept,  bewailing, 

That  Falsehood's   dagger  tyrants  wield; 

But  Freedom  is  our  sword  and  shield, 
And  all  their  arts  are  unavailing. 

To  arms!  to  arms!  ye  brave!  &c. 

(Anon.) 


PIERRE  JEAN  DE  BERANGER  99 

PIERRE  JEAN  DE  BERANGER   (1780-1857) 
The  King  of  Yvetot 

THERE  flourished  once  a  potentate, 
Whom  history  doesn't  name; 
He  rose  at  ten,   retired  at  eight, 

And  snored  unknown  to  fame ! 
A  night-cap  for  his  crown  he  wore, 

A  common  cotton  thing, 
Which  Jeanette  to  his  bedside  bore, 

This  jolly  little  king! 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho!    Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

This  jolly  little  king! 

With  four  diurnal  banquets  he 

His  appetite  allayed. 
And  on  a  jackass  leisurely 

His  royal  progress  made. 
No  cumbrous  state  his  steps  would  clog, 

Fear  to  the  winds  he'd  fling; 
His  single  escort  was  a  dog. 

This  jolly  little  king! 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho !    Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha ! 

This  jolly  little  king! 

He  owned  to  only  one  excess, — 

He  doted  on  his  glass, — 
But  when  a  king  gives  happiness, 

Why  that,  you  see,  will  pass! 
On  every  bottle,   small  or  great. 

For  which  he  used  to  ring. 
He  laid  a  tax  inordinate. 

This  jolly  little  king! 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho!    Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

This  jolly  little  king! 

Such  crowds  of  pretty  girls  he  found 
Occasion  to  admire, 


100  PIERRE  JEAN  DE  BERANGER 

It  gave  his  subjects  double  ground 

For   greeting   him    as    Sire! 
To  shoot  for  cocoanuts  he  manned 

His  army  every  spring, 
But  all  conscription  sternly  banned 

This  jolly  little  king! 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho!    Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

This  jolly  little  king! 

He  eyed  no  neighboring  domain 

"With  envy  or  with  greed. 
And,  like  a  pattern  sovereign, 

Took   Pleasure   for  his  creed! 
Yet,  it  was  not,  if  aright  I  ween. 

Until  his  life  took  wing. 
His  subjects  saw  that  he  had  been 

A  jolly  little  king. 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho!    Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

This  jolly  little  king! 

This  worthy  monarch,  readers  mine, 

You  even  now  may  see. 
Embellishing   a   tavern-sign 

Well  known  to  you  and  me! 
There,  when  the  fete-day  bottle  flows. 

Their  bumpers  they  will  bring. 
And  toast  beneath  his  very  nose 

This  jolly  little  king. 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho !    Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha ! 

This  jolly  little  king! 

(William  Toynbee.) 


Les  Souvenirs  du  Peuple 

FOR  many  a  year  his  glory 
Beneath  the  thatch  shall  fill  our  ears; 
The  lowly  roof  in  fifty  years 
Shall   know   no    other   story. 


PIERRE  JEAN  DE  BERANGER  101 

Village  folk  shall  come  and  gaze, 

Cry  to  some  old  dame  or  other, — 
With  a  tale  of  other  days 

Come  and  kill  the  gloaming,  mother! 
Though   he   cost   us    life   and    limb, 
Yet    his    people    still    revere    him, 

Yes,    revere   him ! 
— Good-by,  tell  hovi^  you  stood  near  him; 

Tell  us  now  of  him! 

Children,   through   the   village   here 

He   passed,   with   kings   behind   him; — 

Ah  me,  how   well   I   mind  him! 
I  first  kept  house   that  year. 
Climbing  up  just  where  I  sat 

On  the  hill  to  get  a  view; — 
He  had  on  a  little  hat, 

He  had  on  a  gray  surtout. 
How  my  head  went  round,  so  nigh  him! 
Says    he,    "Good    day,    my   dear. 

Good  day,  my  dear!" 
— He  spoke  to  you,  goody,  here! 

He  spoke  to  you,  close  by  him? 

The  year  after  that  again 

I  saw  him  in  Paris  one  day, 

My  own  poor   self,  on  his  way 
To  our  Lady's  with  all  his  train. 
All  hearts  were  happy  together 

Admiring  the   flags   and    the   drums; 
All    were    saying,    "What    beautiful    weather! 

Heaven   guards   him   wherever  he  comes!" 
His  smile  was  so  gentle,  too! 
God  had  given  him  a  little  boy, 

Given  him  a  little  boy! 
—What  a  day  for  you,  goody,  of  joy, 

What  a  day  of  joy  for  you! 

But  when  we  had  to  yield 
Our    poor    Champagne    to    strangers. 


102  PIERRE  JEAN  DE  BERANGER 

He,  braving  out  all  dangers, 
Seemed    holding    alone    the    field. 
As   it  might  be  to-day, — might  be, — 

One   night  comes  a  rap   at  the   door. 
I   opened ; — good   God !   it  was  he, 

With   one    or  two   guards,   not   more. 
He    sat   down    in   this    very   chair. 
Crying   out,   "Oh,    what  a   war! 

Oh,  what  a  war !" 
— He   sat,  goody,   just   where   you  are? 

He   sat  where   you  are,   there! 

"I   am   hungry,"   he    says,    and   I   get   him 

A  hunch,  and  a  posset  to  drink; 

Then    he   dries   his   clothes,    and    the   blink 
Of  the  fire  to   sleep  50on   set  him. 
On  waking  he  sees  my  eyes  wet, 

And    says   he,    "Cheer    up,    and    have   heart! 
I    am    off    to    avenge    France   yet 

Under    Paris,    for    all    her    smart." 
He  goes ; — like  a  treasure   found 
I    have   kept    his   glass    from   that    day, 

Kept    his   glass    from    that    day. 
— Have  it   safe,   goody,    still,   you   say? 

Have   it   safe   and   sound? 

Here,  see  it!     But  all  the  while 

The    hero's    hopes    were    drowned; 

He,   whom   a   pope   had   crowned, 
Died  in  a  desert  isle. 
For    long    none    thought    it    could    be; 

Folk  said,  "He  is  going  to  appear; 
He  is  come  to   us   over  the  sea. 

They    shall    know    that    their    master    is   here." 
When   we   came   to   find   none  of   it  true, 
To  me  'twas  a  sore  distress! 

'Twas  a  sore  distress ! 
— Nay,  goody,  God  will  bless — 

God  will  bless  you. 

(James   Robertson.) 


PIERRE  JEAN  DE  BERANGER  103 

Le  Cinq  May 
(Des  Espagnols  m'ont  pris  sur  leur  navire) 

SPANIARDS  took  me  on   friendly  deck, 
Far  away  by  an   Indian  strand; — 
Waif  and   stray   from   an   empire's  wreck, 

Sick  at  heart  in  a  stranger  land. 
Five  years  gone!    But  the  cape  is  past; — 
Crossing  the  line  on  the  wave  at  last:— 
France,  poor  soldier,  again  to  see! 
There   my  boy   has  a  shroud   for  me. 

"Land!"  cries  the  pilot;  "Sainte-Helene !" 

There   he   is   drooping   in   watch  and  ward. 
Hate  dies  down  in  you,  hearts  of   Spain, — 

His    chains    we    curse,    and   his   butcher   guard. 
Nothing  can   I  do,   nothing  to  save; 
Times  are  past  for  a  glorious  grave. 
France,  poor   soldier,   again   to   see! 
There  my  boy  has  a  shroud  for  me. 

Is  he  asleep?  that  bolt  of   steel 

Shattering  thrones,  a  score   at  a  breath; — 
Shall  he  not  rise  in  his  wrath,  his  heel 

Crushing   the   kings   as   he  goes  to   death? 
Hope  recoils   from  that  iron   shore: 
Gods  and  the  eagle  are  friends  no  more. 
France,  poor  soldier,  again   to  see! 
There  my  boy  has  a  shroud  for  me. 

Victory  strained  to   follow  his   will; 

Then   she  flagged,  but  he  would  not  stay: 
Twice  betrayed,   he   has   foiled   them   still;— 
Ah!  but  the  snakes  that  entwine  his  way! 
Venom  lurks   in    the   laurel   wreath; 
Conquering    brows    are    crowned    with    death. 
France,  poor   soldier,   again   to   see! 
There  my  boy  has  a  shroud  for  me. 


104.  PIERRE  JEAN  DE  BERANGER 

Let  but  a  sail  peep  over  the  main, 

"He!"   cry   the   monarchs,    "escaped   his   isle? 
Comes   he   to   ask    for  his   world   again? 

Arm  two  million  rank  and  file!" 
He,  perchance,   with  his   anguish   spent, 
A  last  farewell  to  his  France  has  sent. 
France,  poor   soldier,   again   to   see ! 
There  my  boy  has  a  shroud  for  me. 

Grand  in  spirit  and  great  in  worth. 
Why  did  a  scepter  tempt  his  pride? 
High   above    every  throne   on   earth 

Glows  that  peak  in  the  waters  wide; — 
His  glory's  light  as  a  beacon  borne 
To  a  world  in  its  youth,  and  a  world  outworn. 
France,  poor   soldier,   again   to   see  I 
There  my  boy  has  a  shroud  for  me. 

Hearts  of   Spain!     What  flickers  on  shore? 

A  banner  of  black?     O  Heaven!  'tis  true! 
He — and   to   die?    Our    Star  no   more! 

Ah!    you   are   weeping,   his    foes,   e'en  you. 
Silent,  far  from  the  rock  we  fly: — 
The  sun  is  withered  from  out  the  sky. 
France,  poor  soldier,  again   to   see! 
There  my  boy  has  a  shroud  for  me. 

(James   Robertson.) 


MARCELINE    DESBORDES-VALMORE    (1785-1859) 

Refugee 

I'LL  go,  I'll  go  and  bear  my  withered  laurel  crown 
Unto  my  father's  garth,  where  all  flowers  live  again; 
There  forth  at  length  FU  pour  my  soul,  with  grief  bowed 

down; 
My   Father   secrets   hath   to   solace   every   pain. 


MARCELINE  DESBORDES-VALMORE       105 

ni  go,  I'll  go,  with  tears,  at  least,  to  Him  to  cry, 
"Look  on  me  of  Thy  grace !     I   suffered   have."     And  He, 
Beneath  my  pallor  void  of  charm  and  under  my 
Changed  traits,  because  He  is  my  Father,  will  know  me. 

"  'Tis  you,  then,"  will  He  say,  "dear  desolated  soul ! 
Have  your   feet  weary  grown  of   yonder  world  of  sin? 
Dear  soul.  I'm  God :  put  off  your  trouble  and  your  dole. 
Behold  your   house !    Behold   my  heart !    Come,   enter  in." 

O  refuge  sacrosanct !     O  mildness !     Father  mine, 
Thou  heardst  thy  child  that  wept  and  hearkenedst  to  her. 
Mine  art  Thou  now,  since  hope  I  have  in  Thee,  in  fine, 
And  Thou  possesses!  all  that  I  have  lost  down  here. 

The  flower  that's  fair  no  more  Thou  spurn'st  not,  Father 
mild: 
This,  that's  a  crime  on  earth,  in  heaven  pardon  they; 
Thou  wilt  not  angered  be  with  thine  unfaithful  child, 
For  that  she  nought  hath  sold,  but  all  hath  given  away. 

(John  Payne.) 


ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE  (1790-1869) 
Le  Lac 

STILL  tow'rd  new  shores  we  wend  our  unreturning  way, 
Into  th'  eternal  night  borne  off  before  the  blast; 
May  we  then  never  on  the  ages'  ocean  cast 
Anchor  for  one  sole  day? 

The  year  hath   scarce  attained   its  term  and   now  alone, 
By  thy  beloved  waves,  which  she  should  see  again, 
O  lake,  behold,  I  come  to  sit  upon  this  stone, 
Where  she  to  sit  was  fain. 

Thou  murmurest  then  as  now  against  thy  rocky  steep; 
As  now  thou  brok'st  in  foam  upon  thy  sheltered  sides; 


106  ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE 

And  at  her  feet  adored  the  breeze,  as  now,  did  sweep 
The  spray  from  off  thy  tides. 

One  night,  rememberest  thou?  in  silence  did  we  float; 
Nought  in  the  water  heard  or  air  was  far  and  near, 
Except  the  rowers'  stroke,  whose  oars  in  cadence  smote 
Upon  thy  waters   clear; 

When  accents,  all  at  once,  unknown  to  mortal  ear, 

Th'  enchanted  echoes  woke,  and  earth,  air,  water,  all, 

Straight  hearkened,  as  the  voice  of  her  I  held  so  dear 
These   pregnant   words   let   fall; 

"O  Time,  suspend  thy  flight;  and  you,  propitious  hours, 

Your  course  a  moment  stay! 
Let  us  the  swift  delights  taste  of  this  day  of  ours, 

Of    this    our    fairest    day! 

Unfortunates  enough  on  earth  implore  your  power; 

For   them   alone    flow    yet! 
Bear  with  their  days  away  the  cares  that  them  devour 

And  happy  folk  forget. 

But  I  implore  in  vain  a  moment  of  delay; 

Time  'scapes  me,  still  a-flight; 
Unto  the  night  I  say,  "Be  slower!"     And  the  day 

Will  soon  disperse  the  night. 

Let  us  then  love,  love  still  and  haste  the  hour  that  flees 

Now  to  enjoy.     Alas! 
Man  hath  no  port  and  Time  no  shore  hath  its  seas; 

It  lapses  and  we  pass. 

Can't  be,  O  jealous  Time,  that  these  our  hours  so  sweet, 
Wherein,  by  long-drawn  draughts,  Love  pours  us  happiness, 
With  the  same  breathless  speed  away  from  us  do  fleet 
As  the  days  distress? 


ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE  107 

What!  May  we  not  avail  at  least  to  fix  their  trace? 
Are  they,  then,  wholly  past  and  lost  for  evermore? 
Will  time,  that  gave  them  us  and  doth  them  now  efface, 
Them  ne'er  to  us  restore? 

Death,  Past,  Eternity,  ye  black  abysmal  seas, 
What  do  ye  with  the  days  ye  swallow  thus? 
Say,  will  you  give  us  back  those  rapturous  ectasies 
That  you  bear  off  from  us? 

O  lake,  O  grottoes  dumb,  rocks,  forests  dark  and  deep, 
You  that  Time  spares  or  young  can  cause  again  to  be, 
Keep  off  this  knight  of  ours,  O  goodly  Nature,  keep 
At  least  the  memory ! 

Be't   in  thy   stormy  days  or   in   thy   restful   nights. 
Fair  lake,  in  the  aspect  of  those  thy  bright  hillsides, 
Or  in  those  somber  pines  or  in  those  wilding  heights, 
That  overhang  thy  tides, 

Be't  in  the  breeze  that  sighs  and  passes  on  its  way, 
In  the  sounds  by  thy  shores  echoed  from  place  to  place, 
In  yonder  argent  star,  that  with  its  dulcet  ray 
Silvers  thy  smiling  face. 

Let,  let  the  wind  that  moans,  let,  let  the  reed  that  sighs. 
The  perfumes  light  that  float  in  thine  enbalsamed  air, 
Let  all  one  hears  and  sees  and  breathes  beneath  the  skies 
Still  "They  have  loved!"  declare. 

(John  Payne.) 

The  Valley 

MY  heart,  in  which  even  hope  has  ceased  to  live. 
Shall  weary  fate  no  more  with  idle  breath; 
Give  me,  O  valley  of  my  childhood,  give 
Me  shelter  for  a  day  to  wait  on  death! 


108  ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE 

Here  the  strait  pathway  leaves  the  open  glade: 
Along  its  devious  slopes  hang  the  dense  boughs 

That,  bending  over  me  their  mingled  shade, 
With  blissful  calm  and  silence  crown  my  brows. 

Two  rivulets  there  through  verdant  arches  gleam, 
Thence  down  the  valley  wind  with  serpent  course; 

A  moment  blend  their  murmur  and  their  stream, 
And,  lost  in  one,  forget  their  nameless  source. 

Like   theirs   the   current   of   my   youth   did   roll 
Beyond  recall,  noiseless  and  nameless  passed: 

Their  wave  is  clear,  but  in  my  troubled  soul 
The  morning  beam  no  bright  reflection  cast. 

The   freshness   of   these   beds,   with    shadow   crowned, 
Chains  me  all  day  on  banks  the  streamlet  laves; 

Like  a  child  soothed  by  song's  monotonous  sound, 
My  soul  grows  drowsy  with  the  murmuring  waves. 

Ah !  here,  girdled  by  ramparts  ever  green 
Whose  narrow  bound  my  vision  satisfies 

I  love  to  linger,  and  alone,  unseen. 
Hear  the  stream  only,  only  see  the  skies. 

Too  much  my  soul  has  lived  and  loved  and  striven; 

Living   I    come   to    seek   Lethean  calm; 
May  blest  oblivion  by  these  shades  be  given, 

For  save  oblivion  naught  can  bring  me  balm. 

My  soul  finds  silence  here,  my  heart  repose ; 

The  turmoil  of  the  world  comes  muffled  here. 
Even   as  a   distant   sound   that   feebler  grows, 

Borne  on  the  wind  to  the  uncertain  ear. 

Hence  for  life  a  cloudy  veil  is  thrown, 

The  past  through  shadow  casts  a  fading  gleam; 

Love  alone  dwells,  as  some  vast  shape  alone 

Survives  the  awakening  from   a  vanished  dream. 


ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE  109 

Linger,  my  soul,  in  this  last  resting-place. 
Even  as  a  traveller,  in  the  dwindling  light, 

Before  the  gates  of  refuge  rests  a  space. 
And   breathes   refreshed   the   balmy  air  of  night. 

Let  us,  like  him,  shake  from  our  feet  the  dust; 

The  path  of  life  once  trod  our  journeyings  cease; 
Let  us,  like  him,  o'er  wearied,  breathe  in  trust 

This  calm,  precursor  of  the  eternal  peace. 

Thy  days,  somber  and  brief  like  autumn  days. 

Decline,  as  on  those  slopes  the  night-shades  gloom; 

When  love  forsakes  thee,  and  thy  friend  betrays, 
Alone  thou  treadst  the  pathway  to  the  tomb. 

But  Nature's  welcome  here  thy  love  shall  claim; 

Plunge  in  her  breast,  that  ever  open  lies; 
All  else  may  change,  but  Nature  is  the  same, 

And  all  thy  days  behold  the  same  sun  rise. 

Her  breast  with  light  and  shadow  still  is  stored. 

Turn  from  false  loves  and  dreams  that  fade  erelong; 
Adore  the  voice   Pythagoras  adored. 

Give  ear,  like  him,  to  the  celestial  song. 

Fly  with  the  north  wind  on  her  aerie  car; 

Follow   the  noonday  glow,   the  twilight  pale: 
Beneath  the  beam  of  eve's  mysterious  star 

Steal  through  the  woods  when  shadow  swathes  the  vale. 

In  Nature  seek  the  soul;  blind  though  thou  art, 
God  gave  thee  light  to  know  him  and  rejoice; 

A  voice  speaks  in  his  silence  to  the  heart. 
Who  has  not  heard  the  echo  of  that  voice? 

(IV.  J.  Robertson.) 


110  ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE 

To  a  Young  Girl  that  Begged  a  Lock  of  My  Hair 

MY  hair !  that  Time  turns  white,  and  withering  mocks ! 
My  hair !  that  falls  before  the  winter's  frown ! 
Why  should  your  fingers  pleach  these  fading  locks? 
Green  boughs  are  best  if  you  would  weave  a  crown. 

Think  you  the  brows  of  manhood,  fair  young  girl, 
That  forty  seasons  load  with  joys  and  fears, 

Wear  the  blond  ringlets  in  their  silken  curl 

Wherewith  Hope  plays,  as  with  your  seventeen  years? 

Think  you  the  lyre,  attuned  to  the  soul's  rhyme, 

Sings  from  our  hearts  in  the   full  throat. 
With  never  a  string  that  snaps  from  time  to  time, 

And  leaves  beneath  the  touch  a  silent  note? 

Poor  simple  child !    What  would  the  swallow  sing, 
When  winter  winds  beat  round  her  ruined  tower, 

If  thou  shouldst  crave  those  feathers   from  her  wing 
The  ruthless  vulture  strips  and  tempests  shower? 

(W.  J.  Robertson.) 


Evening 

THE   evening   brings    the    silence    back: 
Seated  on  this  deserted  height, 
The  soaring  chariot  of  the  Night 
I   follow  on   its  upward   track. 

Venus  upon  the  sky-line  glows : 
With   her  mysterious  light  the   star 
Of  passion  silvers  from  afar 
The  grass  beneath  my  feet  that  grows. 

From    yonder   beech's    leafy   glooms 
I  hear  the  shiver  of  the  sprays. 


ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE  m 

A  sound  as  of  a   shade  that  strays 
And  flutters  round  a  place  of  tombs; 

And  sudden,  glancing  from  the  skies, 
A  ray  from  yonder  star  nocturn 
Falls  on  my  forehead  taciturn 
And  settles  softly  on  mine  eyes. 

Mild  reflex  of  a  globe  of  light, 
What  wilt  thou,  charming  ray,  with  me? 
Com'st  thou  my  prisoned  heart  to  free. 
Bringing  thy  radiance  to  my  sprite? 

Descendest  thou  to  tell  me  all 
The  mysteries  of  thy  world  divine. 
The  secrets  of  that  sphere  of  thine, 
To  which  the  day  will  thee  recall? 

A   secret  instinct  doth  it  bear 
Thee  toward  wan  and  woeful  wights? 
Com'st   thou   to   shine   on   them   a-nights. 
As  if  a  ray  of  hope  it  were? 

Com'st  thou  for  him,  to  thee  that  sighs, 
To  show  the  Future,  veil  withdrawn? 
Celestial  ray,  art  thou  the  dawn 
Of  that  bright  day  that  never  dies? 

My  heart  with  thy  resplendence  glows; 
Transports   I   feel,  unknown  before; 
I  think  of  those  that  are  no  more: 
Art  thou  the  soul,  soft  light,  of  those? 

Belike  their  happy  shades  thus  steal 
Among  the  boskage  odorous : 
Enveloped  in  their  image  thus, 
Nearer  to   them   myself   I    feel. 

Ah,  if,  beloved  shades,  'tis  you, 
Far   from   the   crowd,    from   noise   afar, 


112  ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE 

Come  thus  each  night  from  yonder  star, 
To  mingle  with  my  dreams  anew. 

Come  back,  come  back,  and  love  and  peace 
To  my  waste  soul  bring  back  with  you. 
As  falls  on  flowers  the  nightly  dew, 
Whenas   the   hot   day's   ardors   cease. 

But  from  the  sky-line  like  a  pall, 
Rises  a  train  of  vapors  gray; 
They  veil  and  blot  the  dulcet  ray 
And  darkness   drowns   and    swallows   all. 

(John  Payne.) 


Song  Before  Death 

{From  the  French,  1795) 

SWEET  mother,  in  a  minute's  span 
Death  parts  thee  and  my  love  of  thee; 
Sweet  love,  that  yet  art  living  man, 

Come  back,  true  love,  to  comfort  me. 
Back,  ah,  come  back!  ah!  well  away! 
But  my  love  comes  not  any  day. 

As  roses,  when  the  warm  West  blows, 
Break  to  full  flower  and  sweeten  spring, 

My  soul  would  break  to  a  glorious  rose 
In  such  wise  at  his  whispering. 

In  vain  I  listen ;  well  away ! 

My  love   says  nothing  any  day. 

You  that  will  weep  for  pity  of  love 
On  the  low  place  where  I  am  lain, 

I  pray  you,  having  wept  enough, 
Tell  him  for  whom  I  bore  such  pain 

That  he  has  yet,  ah!  well  away! 

My  true  love  to  my  dying  day. 

(Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.) 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY  113 

ALFRED  DE  VIGNY    (1797-1863) 
Moses 

HE  said  unto  the  Lord: — "Shall  I  ne'er  be  done? 
Where  will  thou  still  that  I  my  footsteps  turn? 
Am  I  to  live  for  aye,  great,  powerful,  and  alone? 
Give  me,  ah,  give  me  leave  to  sleep  the  sleep  of  earth ! 
What  did  I  to  thee  to  be  chosen  thine  elect? 
Let  now  some  other  stand  'twixt  thee  and  thine! 
Some  other  curb  thy  wild  steed,  Israel ! 
I  gladly  make  him  heir  to  book  and  brazen  rod. 
Why  needest  thou  have  dried  up  all  my  hopes? 
Why  not  have  left  me  man  in  all  my  ignorance? 
Alas !  thou  madest  me  wise  among  the  wise : 
My  finger  showed  thy  wandering  race  its  path, 
I  called  down  fire  upon  the  heads  of  kings. 
And   future  time  will  kneel  before  my  laws. 

I  am  the  Great :  my  feet  tread  nation's  necks, 
My  hand  holds  generations  in  its  will. 
Alas,  my  Lord !    I  am  great — I  am  alone : 
Give  me — ah,  give  me  leave  to  sleep  the  sleep  of  earth !" 

(Grace  King.) 


JACQUES  JASMIN   (1798-1864) 
The  Ice-Hearted  Siren 

THOU    whom    the    swains    environ, 
O  maid  of  wayward  will ! 
O  icy-hearted  Siren! 
The  hour  we  all  desire,  when 
Thou  too,  thou  too  shalt   feel. 
The    gay    wings    thou    dost    flutter, 
The  airy  nothings  utter. 
While   the   crowd   can   only  mutter 


114  JACQUES  JASMIN 

In  ecstasy  complete 

At  thy  feet: 
Yet  hark  to  One  who  proves  thee 
Thy  victories  are  vain 
Until  a  heart  that  loves  thee 
Thou  hast  learn'd  to  love  again. 

Sunshine,  the  heavens  adorning, 
We  welcome  with   delight; 
But  thy   sweet    face   returning 
With  every  Sunday  morning 
Is  yet  a  rarer  sight. 
We  love  thy  haughty  graces, 
Thy  swallow-like  swift  paces; 
Thy  song  the  soul  upraises; 
Thy  lips,  thine  eyes,  thy  hair, 

All  are   fair: 
Yet  hark  to  One  who  proves  thee  I 
Thy  victories  are  vain 
Until  a  heart  that  loves  thee 
Thou  hast  learn'd  to   love  again. 

Thy  going  from   them   widows 

All  places  utterly; 

The   hedge-rows    and   the   meadows 

Turn  scentless;  gloomy  shadows 

Discolor  the  blue  sky. 

Then,  when  thou  comest  again, 

Farewell   fatigue  and  pain! 

Life  glows  in  every  vein; 
O'er  every  slender  finger 

We  would  linger. 
Yet   hark   to    One    who    proves   thee! 
Thy  victories   are  vain 
Until  a  heart  that  loves  thee 
Thou  hast  learn'd  to   love  again. 

Thy  pet  dove  in  his  flitting 
Doth  warn  thee,  Lady  fair! 


VICTOR  HUGO  115 

Thee  in  the  wood  forgetting, 
Brighter  for  his  dim   setting 
He  shines,  for  love  is  there. 
Love  is  the  life  of  all : 
O  answer  thou  his  call ! 
Lest  the  flower  of  thy  days  fall, 
And  the  grace  whereof  we  wot 

Be  forgot. 
For  till  great  Love  shall  move  thee 
Thy  victories  are  vain : 
'Tis  little  men  should  love  thee : 
Learn  thou  to  love  again ! 

(H.  W.  Preston.) 


VICTOR  HUGO   (1802-1885) 
The  Veil 

Sister 

WHAT  ails,  what  ails  you,  brothers  dear? 
Those  knitted  brows  why  cast  ye  down? 
Why  gleams  that  light  of  deathly  fear 

'Neath  the  dark  shadows  of  your  frown? 
Torn  are  your  girdles'  crimson  bands; 

And  thrice  already  have  I   seen. 
Half-drawn    within    your    shuddering   hands, 
Glitter  your  poniards'  naked  sheen. 

Eldest  Brother 
Sister,  hath  not  to-day  thy  veil  upraised  been? 

Sister 
As  I  returned  from  the  bath, — 

From  the  bath,  brothers,  I  returned, — 
By  the  mosque  led  my  homeward   path. 

And  fiercely  down  the  hot  noon  burned; 
In  my  uncovered  palanquin, 

Safe  from  all  eye  of  infidel, 


116  VICTOR  HUGO 

I  gasped  for  air, — I  dreamed  no  sin, — 
My  veil  a  single  instant  fell. 

Second  Brother 
A   man   was   passing? — in   green   caftan? — sister,    tell! 

Sister 
Yes,  yes, — perhaps; — but  his  bold  eye 

Saw  not  the  blush  upon  my  cheek. — 
Why  speak  ye  thus  aside?     O,  why, 

Brothers,  aside  do  ye  thus  speak? 
Will  ye  my  blood? — O,  hear  me  swear. 

He  saw  me  not, — he  could  not  see! 
Mercy! — will  ye  refuse  to  spare 

Weak  woman  helpless  on  her  knee? 

Third  Brother 
When  sank  the  sun  to-night,  in  robe  of  red  was  he! 

Sister 
Mercy ! — O,  grant,  me,  grant  me  grace ! — 

O    God !    four  poniards    in    my   side ! — 
Ah!  by  your  knees  which  I  embrace! — 

My  veil!  my  veil  of  snowy  pride! — 
Fly  me  not  now ! — in  blood  I  swim ! 

Support,  support  my  sinking  head! 
For  o'er  my  eyes,  now  dark  and  dim. 

Brothers,  the  veil  of   death  is   spread. 

Fourth  Brother 
That  veil,  at  least,  is  one  thou  ne'er  shalt  lift  again! 

(Democratic  Review.) 


The  Djinns 

TOWN,  tower. 
Shore,  deep, 
Where  lower 
Cliffs  steep; 


VICTOR  HUGO  117 

Waves  gray. 
Where  play 
Winds    gay, — 
All  sleep. 

Hark !  a  sound, 
Far  and  slight, 
Breathes  around 
On  the  night : 
High  and  higher, 
Nigh   and   nigher, 
Like  a  fire 
Roaring    bright. 

Now   on  'tis   sweeping 
With   rattling  beat, 
Like  dwarf  imp  leaping 
In  gallop   fleet : 
He  flies,  he  prances. 
In    frolic    fancies, 
On  wave-crest   dances 
With  pattering  feet. 

Hark,  the   rising  swell, 
With  each  nearer  burst! 
Like  the  toll  of  bell 
Of   a   convent  cursed; 
Like  the  billowy   roar 
On    a    storm-lashed    shore, — 
Now  hushed,  now   once  more 
Maddening   to    its    worst. 

O   God !   the   deadly  sound 
Of    the    Dj inns'    fearful    cry! 
Quick,  'neath  the  spiral  round 
Of  the  deep  staircase  fly ! 
See,    see    our    lamplight    fade! 
And   of   the   balustrade 
Mounts,  mounts  the  circling  shade 
Up  to  the  ceiling  high ! 


118  VICTOR  HUGO 

'Tis  the  Dj  inns'  wild  streaming  swarm 
Whistling  in  their  tempest-flight; 
Snap  the  tall  yews  'neath  the  storm, 
Like  a  pine-flame  crackling  bright. 
Swift  and  heavy,  lo,  their  crowd 
Through  the  heavens  rushing  loud, 
Like  a  livid  thunder-cloud 
With  its  bolt  of  fiery  night! 

Ha!  they  are  on  us,  close  without! 
Shut  tight  the  shelter  where  we  lie! 
With   hideous   din   the    monster   rout. 
Dragon  and  vampire,  fill  the  sky! 
The  loosened  rafter  overhead 
Trembles  and  bends  like  quivering  reed; 
Shakes  the  old  door  with  shuddering  drcad^ 
As  from  its  rusty  hinge  'twould  fly! 

Wild  cries  of  hell !  voices  that  howl  and  shriek ! 
The  horrid  swarm  before  the  tempest  tossed — 
O  Heaven! — descends  my  lowly  roof  to  seek: 
Bends  the  strong  wall  beneath  the  furious  host. 
Totters  the  house,  as  though,  like  dry  leaf  shorn 
From  autumn  bough  and  on  the  mad  blast  borne, 
Up  from  its  deep  foundations  it  were  torn 
To  join  the  stormy  whirl.     Ah!  all  is  lost! 

O  Prophet!  if  thy  hand  but  now 

Save   from  these   foul   and   hellish   things, 

A   pilgrim    at    thy    shrine    I'll   bow, 

Laden  with  pious  offerings. 

Bid  their  hot  breath  its  fiery  rain 

Stream  on  my  faithful  door  in  vain, 

Vainly   upon    my    blackened    pane 

Grate  the  fierce  claws  of  their  dark  wings! 

They  have  passed ! — and  their  wild  legion 
Cease  to  thunder  at   my  door; 
Fleeting  through  night's  rayless  region. 
Hither   they    return    no   more. 


VICTOR  HUGO  119 

Clanking  chains   and   sounds  of   woe 
Fill  the  forests  as  they  go; 
And   the   tall   oaks  cower  low, 
Bent  their  flaming  flight  before. 

On !   on !  the  storm  of  wings 

Bears  far  the  fiery  fear, 

Till  scarce  the  breeze  now  brings 

Dim  murmurings  to  the  ear; 

Like  locusts'  humming  hail, 

Or    thrash    of    tiny    flail 

Plied  by  the  pattering  hail 

On  some  old  roof-tree  near. 

Fainter  now  are  borne 
Fitful    mutterings    still; 
As,   when   Arab    horn 
Swells    its    magic    peal. 
Shoreward    o'er    the    deep 
Fairy  voices  sweep, 
And    the   infant's    sleep 
Golden    visions    fill. 

Each    deadly   Djinn, 
Dark   child   of    fright. 
Of   death   and   sin, 
Speeds   the   wild    flight 
Hark,    the    dull    moan, 
Like   the    deep   tone 
Of    ocean's   groan, 
Afar,   by   night! 

More   and   more 
Fades  it  now, 
As    on   shore 
Ripple's    flow, — 
As   the   plaint 
Far  and  faint 
Of   a    saint 
Murmured    low. 


120  VICTOR  HUGO 


Hark!    hist! 
Around, 
I  list! 

The   bounds 
Of    space 
All  trace 
Efface 
Of  sound. 

(Anon.) 


A  Sunset 

XFrom  "Feidlles  d'Automne") 

I  LOVE  the  evenings,  passionless  and  fair,  I  love  the  evens, 
Whether  old  manor-fronts  their  ray  with  golden  fulgence 

leavens. 
In  numerous  leafage  bosomed  close; 
Whether  the  mist  in  reefs  of  fire  extend  its  reaches  sheer, 
Or  a  hundred  sunbeams  splinter  in  an  azure  atmosphere 
On  cloudy  archipelagos. 

Oh,  gaze  ye  on  the  firmament!  a  hundred  clouds  in  motion, 
Up-piled  in  the  immense  sublime  beneatth  the  winds'   com- 
motion, 

Their  unimagined  shapes  accord : 
Under  their  waves  at  intervals  flames  a  pale  levin  through. 
As  if  some  giant  of  the  air  amid  the  vapors  drew 

A  sudden  elemental  sword. 

The  sun  at  bay  with  splendid  thrusts  still  keeps  the  sullen 

fold; 
And  momently  at  distance  sets,  as  a  cupola  of  gold, 

The  thatched  roof  of  a  cot  a-glance; 
Or  on  the  blurred  horizon  joins  his  battle  with  the  haze; 
Or  pools  the  glooming  fields  about  with  inter-isolate  blaze, 

Great  moveless  meres  of  radiance. 


VICTOR  HUGO  121 

Then  mark  you  how  there  hangs  athwart  the  firmament's 

swept  track, 
Yonder,  a  mighty  crocodile  with  vast  irradiant  back, 

A  triple  row  of  pointed  teeth? 
Under  its  burnished  belly  slips  a  ray  of  eventide, 
The  flickerings  of  a  hundred  glowing  clouds  its  tenebrous  side 

With  scales  of  golden  mail  ensheathe. 

Then  mounts  a  palace,  then  the  air  vibrates — the  vision  flees. 
Confounded  to  its  base,  the  fearful  cloudy  edifice 

Ruins   immense   in   mounded   wrack; 
Afar  the  fragments  strew  the  sky,  and  each  envermeiled  cone 
Hangeth,    peak   downward,    overhead,   like    mountains   over- 
thrown 

When  the  earthquake  heaves  its  hugy  back. 

These  vapors,  with  their  leaden,  golden,  iron,  bronzed  glows, 
Where  the  hurricane,  the  waterspout,  thunder,  and  hell  repose, 

Muttering  hoarse  dreams  of  destined  harms, — 
'Tis  God  who  hangs  their  multitude  amid  the  skiey  deep. 
As  a  warrior  that  suspendeth  from  the  roof-tree  of  his  keep 

His  dreadful  and  resounding  arms ! 

All  vanishes!     The  sun,  from  topmost  heaven  precipitated. 
Like  a  globe  of  iron  which  is  tossed  back  fiery  red 

Into    the    furnace    stirred    to    fume. 
Shocking  the  cloudy  surges,  plashed  from  its  impetuous  ire. 
Even  to  the  zenith  spattereth  in  a  flecking  scud  of  fire 

The  vaporous  and  inflamed   spaume. 

O   contemplate  the   heavens !     Whenas   the   vein-drawn   day 

dies  pale, 
In  every  season,  every  place,  gaze  through  their  every  veil? 

With  love  that  has  not  speech  for  need ! 
Beneath  their  solemn  beauty  is  a  mystery  infinite : 
If  winter  hue  them  like  a  pall,  or  if  the  summer  night 
Fantasy  them  starry  brede. 

(Francis   Thompson.) 


122  VICTOR  HUGO 

Heard  on  the  Mountain 

{From  "Feuilles  d'Automne") 

HAVE  you   sometimes,   calm,   silent,  let   your  tread  as- 
pirant rise 
Up  to  the  mountain's  summit,  in  the  presence  of  the  skies? 
Was't  on  the  borders  of  the  South?  or  on  the  Bretagne  coast? 
And  at  the  basis  of  the  mount  had  you  the  Ocean  tossed? 
And  there,  leaned  o'er  the  wave  and  o'er  the  immeasurable- 

ncss, 
Calm,   silent,  have  you  barkened   what  it   says?     Lo,   what 

it  says ! 
One  day  at  least,  whereon  my  thought,  enlicensed  to  muse, 
Had  drooped  its  wing  above  the  beached  margent  of  the  ooze, 
And,  plunging  from  the  mountain  height  into  the  immensity, 
Beheld  upon  one  side  the  land,  on  the  other  side  the  sea. 
I  barkened,  comprehended, — never,  as  from  those  abysses. 
No,   never  issued   from  a   mouth,  nor   moved  an   ear   such 

voice  as  this  is ! 
A  sound  it  was,  at  outset,  immeasurable,  confused, 
Vaguer  than  is  the  wind  among  the  tufted  trees  effused, 
Full  of  magnificent  accords,  suave  murmurs,  sweet  as  is 
The  evensong,  and  mighty  as  the  shock  of  panoplies 
When   the  hoarse  melee   in   its  arms   the   closing  squadrons 

grips, 
And  pants,  in  furious  breathings,  from  the  clarions'  brazen 

lips. 
Unutterable  the  harmony,  unsearchable  its  deep, 
Whose  fluid  undulations  round  the  world  a  girdle  keep, 
And    through   the    vasty   heavens,    which   by   its    surges    are 

washed  young, 
Its  infinite  volutions  roll,  enlarging  as  they  throng, 
Even  to  the  profound  arcane,  whose  ultimate  chasms  somber 
Its   shattered   flood  englut   with   time,  with  space  and   form 

and  number. 
Like  to  another  atmosphere,  with  thin  o'erflowing  robe, 
The  hymn  eternal  covers  all  the  inundated  globe : 


VICTOR  HUGO  123 

And  the  world,   swathed   about  with   this  investuring   sym- 
phony, 
Even  as  it  trepidates  in  the  air,  so  trepidates  in  the  harmony. 

And  pensive,  I  attended  the  ethereal  litany, 

Lost  within  this  containing  voice  as  if  within  the  sea. 

Soon  I  distinguished,  yet  as  tone  which  veils  confuse  and 

smother, 
Amid  this  voice  two  voices,  one  commingled  with  the  other. 
Which  did  from  off  the  land  and  seas  even  to  the  heavens 

aspire ; 
Chanting  the  universal  chant  in  simultaneous  quire. 
And  I  distinguished  them  amid  that  deep  and  rumorous  sound, 
As    who   beholds   two    currents   thwart   amid   the    fluctuous 

profound. 

The  one  was  of  the  waters;  a  be-radiant  hymnal  speech! 
That  was  the  voice  of  the  surges,  as  they  parleyed  each  with 

each. 
The  other,  which  arose  from  our  abode  terranean. 
Was  sorrowful;  and  that,  alack!  the  murmur  was  of  man; 
And   in   this   mighty   quire,   whose   chantings   day   and   night 

resound, 
Every  wave  had  its  utterance,  and  every  man  his  sound. 

Now,  the  magnificent  Ocean,  as  I  said,  unbannering, 
A  voice  of  joy,  a  voice  of  peace,  did  never  stint  to  sing. 
Most  like  in  Sion's  temples  to  a  psaltery  psaltering, 
And  to  creation's  beauty  reared  the  great  lauds  of  his  song. 
Upon  the  gale,  upon  the  Squall,  his  clamor  borne  along 
Unpausingly  arose  to  God  in  more  triumphal  swell; 
And  every  one  among  his  waves,  that  God  alone  can  quell, 
When  the  other  of  its  song  made  end,  into  the  singing  pressed. 
Like  that  majestic  lion  whereof  Daniel  was  the  guest. 
At  intervals  the  Ocean  his  tremendous  murmur  awed; 
Arid,  toward  where  the  sunset  fires  fell  shaggily  and  broad. 
Under  his  golden  mane,  methought  that  I  saw  pass  the  hand 
of  God. 


^ 


124  VICTOR  HUGO 

Meanwhile,  and  side  by  side  with  that  august  fanfaronnade 
The  other  voice,  like  the  sudden  scream  of  a  destrier  affrayed, 
Like  an  infernal  door  that  grates  ajar  its  rusty  throat, 
Like  to  a  bow  of  iron  that  gnarls  upon  an  iron  rote, 
Grinded;  and  tears,  and  shriekirlgs,  the  anathema,  the  lewd 

taunt. 
Refusal  of  viaticum,  refusal  of  the  font. 

And  clamor,  and  malediction,  and  dread  blasphemy,  among 
That    hurtling    crowd    of    rumor    from    the    diverse    human 

tongue. 
Went  by  as  who  beholdeth,  when   the  valleys  thick  t'ward 

night. 

The  long  drifts  of  the  birds  of  dusk  pass,  blackening  flight 
on  flight. 

What  was  this  sound  whose  thousand  echoes  vibrated  un- 
sleeping? 

Alas!  The  sound  was  earth's  and  man's,  for  earth  and  man 
were  weeping. 

Brothers!   of  these  two  voices   strange,  most  unimaginably, 
Unceasingly  regenerated,   dying  unceasingly, 
Harkened  of  the  Eternal  throughout  His  Eternity, 
The    one    voice    uttereth    NATURE,    and    the    other    voice 
HUMANITY. 

Then  I  alit  in  reverie;  for  my  ministering  sprite. 
Alack!  had  never  yet  deployed  a  pinion  of  an  ampler  flight. 
Nor  ever  had  my  shadow  endured  so  large  a  day  to  burn: 
And  long  I   rested  dreaming,  contemplating  turn  by  turn 
Now   that  abyss  obscure  which   lurked   beneath  the  water's 

roll, 
And  now  that  other  untemptable  abyss  v/hich  opened  in  my 

soul. 
And  I  made  question  of  me,  to  what  issues  are  we  here. 
Whither    should    tend    the    thwarting    threads    of    all    this 

ravelled  gear; 
What  doth  the  soul ;  to  be  or  live  if  better  worth  it  is ; 
And  why  the  Lord,  Who,  only,  reads  within  that  book  of  His, 


VICTOR  HUGO  125 

In   fatal  hymeneals  hath  eternally  entwined 
The  vintage-chant  of  nature  with  the  dirging  cry  of  human- 
kind? 

(Francis  Thompson.) 


Auhade 

SHUT   is   thy  door   and   yet   day  breaks! 
Why  sleep,  when  morning  fills  the  air? 
When  to  the  light  the  rose  awakes. 
Wilt  thou  not  wake  too,  my  fair? 

O  mistress  dear, 
List  to  thy  swain, 

That  warbles  here 
And  weeps  in  vain! 

All  at  thy  door  for  entrance  cries, 

"I  am  the  Light,"  says  dawn  above; 
"I'm  Harmony,"  the  bird  replies 

And  my  heart  sighs,  "and  I  am  Love!" 

O  mistress  dear, 
List  to  thy  swain. 

That  warbles  here 
And  weeps  in  vain ! 

God,  who  by  thee  hath  made  me  whole, 

Woman  for  love,  angel  for  praise. 
My  love  created  for  thy  soul 

And  for  thy  beauty  made  my  gaze. 

O  mistress  dear, 
List  to  thy  swain. 

That  warbles  here 
And  weeps  in  vain  I 

(John  Payne.) 


126  VICTOR  HUGO 

June  Nights 

IN    summer    time,    when    day    hath    fled,    with    blossoms 
crowned, 
The  plain  exhales  afar  intoxicating  scents; 
With   eyes  half   closed  and   ears  half  open  to  each  sound, 
One  in  a  half-sleep  lies,  that  but  half  veils  the  sense. 

The  stars  are  purer  then  and  sweeter  seems  the  shade; 
A  vague  half  roseate  hue  tinges  th'  eternal  dome; 
And  the  dawn  soft  and  pale,  waiting  its  hour  foresaid, 
Upon  the  marge  of  heav'n  seems  all  night  to  roam. 

(John  Payne.) 

Love's  Nest 

THE  swallow  in  the  spring  seeks  out  the  ruined  towers. 
Ruin  where  man  is  found  no  more,  but  life  still  flowers ; 
The  white-throat  warbler  seeks  in  April,  O  my  sweet. 
The  forest  dim  and  cool,  half  sheltered  from  the  heat. 
The  moss,  and  in  the  crook  of  boughs,  the  nested  eaves, 
Fashioned  by  crossing  sprays  and  over-hanging  leaves. 
Thus  doth  the  bird ;  and  we,  in  the  mid-town  we  seek 
The  desert  nook,  the  dim,  lone  shelter,  calm  and  meek, 
The  sill,  to  prying  eyes,  malignant,  unexposed, 
The  street,  wherein  at  noon  the  shutters  still  are  closed. 
As  in  the  fields  we  seek  the  herd's,  the  poet's  way, 
And  in  the  woods  the  glade  unknown  unto  the  day, 
Whereas  the  air  is  mute,  but  for  the  calling  doves. 
The  bird  conceals  its  nest,  and  we,  we  hide  our  loves. 

(John  Payne.) 

The  Lonely  Hours 

I'VE  meditated.  Lord,  in  the  nocturnal  hours; 
Pensive,  I've  sat,  as  if  an  ancestor  I  were. 
Upon  the  desert  peaks,  in  the  dumb  woodland  bowers. 
Where  foot  of  man  comes  not  and  one  finds  Thee  alone. 


VICTOR  HUGO  127 

I've  harkened  to  the  hoots  of  the  sinister  fowl ; 

I've  watched  the  pallid  flower  quake  in  the  grasses  green, 
The  tearful  trees  divide  the  clouds'  gray-woven  cowl 

And  on  the  sky-line  throb  the  livid  dawn  I've  seen. 

I've  seen,  at  eventide,  the  black  phantasmal  shapes 

Crawl,  noiseless,  o'er  the  plains,  in  the  last  of  the  light; 

And  from  the  lonely  crests  looked  of  the  sullen  capes 
Upon  the  somber  stir  of  ocean  in  the  night. 

I've  seen  the  ghostly  moon  pass  in  the  pine  woods  dim 
And  whiles,  a  witness  full  of  fears  and  shudderings. 

Have  thought  to  catch   a  glimpse  of  panic-struck  and  grim 
Creation's  attitude  toward  the  eternal  things. 

(John  Payne.) 

By  the  Seaside 

THE  sea  yields  foam   and  sand,  the  earth   yields:  gold 
as   well 
As  silver,  both  combined,  the  emerald  waves  pervade : 
I  hear  the  sound  that  makes  ether  impassable, 
Immense  and  distant  sound,  with  silence  overlaid. 

A  little  child  beside  the  murmuring  ocean   sings. 
Nothing  is  great  or  small ;  and  set,  my  God,  have  You, 
Above  creation  all  and  all  created  things, 
The  self-same  stars  of  gold,  the  self-same  skies  of  blue. 

Our  lot  is  mean ;  but  fair  our  imaginings ; 

The  soul  the  body  bears  to  the  bright  day  above; 

Man  is  a  point  in  space,  that  flies  with  two  great  wings, 

Whereof  the  one  is  thought  and  th'  other  one  is  Love. 

Serenity  of  all!   Strength,  majesty  and  grace! 
The  ships  back  to  the  port,  the  birds  to  the  nest  flit: 
All  turn  unto  repose  and  I,  I  hear  in  space 
The  palpitations  vague  of  kisses  infinite. 


12S  VICTOR  HUGO 

The  wind  the  rushes  bends  upon  the  proud  rocks'  brow 
And  the  child's  voice  that  sings  bears  off.    Ah,   wellaway! 
O  wind,  how  many  blades  of  grass  at  once  you  bow, 
How  many  and  many  a  song  at  once  you  bear  away! 

What  matter!    Here  all  calms,  cradles  and  fills  with  peace; 
No  shadow  here  at  heart,  no  bitter  cares  are  found; 
A  peace  ineffable  mounts  and  falls  without  cease 
Between  the  soul's  deep  blue  and  the  sea's  blue  profound. 

(John  Payne.) 


Light  on  the  Horizon 

I   KNOW  not  why  my  soul,  Lord,  in  these  dreams  persists. 
The  fisher  drags  his  net  along  the  sea-sands  pale; 
The  husbandman  plows  up  the  soil ;  but  I  the  mists 
Nocturnal  delve;  the  net  of  nothingness  I  trail. 

We  question  Thee,  O  God ;  and  better  mute  were  we. 
What  skill  our  efforts  all,  our  doubts,  our  combats?    Oh! 
Why  seek  to  sound  th'  abyss?     Let  us  wait.     Mystery 
Lives  side  by  side,  in  peace,  with  mankind  here  below. 

The  sailor,  helpless  toy  of  wind  and  fate  and  sea, 
Who,  as  he  anchor  weighs  for  sailing,  whistles  still, 
Lets  ocean  growl ;  and  it,  whilst  growling,  leaves  him  free 
To   whistle  at   his   will. 

(John  Payne.) 


The  Grave  and  the  Rose 

THE    Grave    said    to   the    Rose, 
"What  of  the  dews  of  dawn, 
Love's  flower,  what  end  is  theirs?" 
"And  what  of  spirits  flown, 


VICTOR  HUGO  129 

The   souls   whereon    doth   close 

The  tomb's  mouth  unawares?" 
The  Rose  said  to  the  Grave. 

The   Rose   said,  "In  the  shade 

From  the   dawn's   tears  is  made 
A  perfume   faint  and  strange, 

Amber  and  honey  sweet." 

"And  all  the  spirits  fleet 
Do  suffer  a  sky-change, 

More  strangely  than  the  dew, 

To  God's  own  angels  new," 
The  Grave  said  to  the  Rose. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


The  Genesis  of  Butterflies 

THE  dawn  is  smiling  on  the  dew  that  covers 
The  tearful  roses;  lo,  the  little  lovers 
That  kiss  the  buds,  and  all  the  flutterings 
In  jasmine  bloom,  and  privet,  of  white  wings, 
That  go  and  come,  and  fly,  and  peep  and  hide, 
With  muffled  music,  murmured  far  and  wide. 
Ah,  the  Spring  time,  when  we  think  of  all  the  lays 
That   dreamy  lovers   send   to   dreamy  mays, 
Of  the  fond  hearts  within  a  billet  bound, 
Of  all  the  soft  silk  paper  that  pens  wound, 
The  messages  of   love  that  mortals  write 
Filled  with  intoxication  of  delight. 
Written  in  April  and  before  the   May  time 
Shredded    and    flown,    playthings    for    the    wind's    playtime, 
We  dream  that  all  white  butterflies  above, 
Who  seek  through  clouds  or  waters  souls  to  love, 
And  leave  their  lady  mistress  in   despair, 
To  flit  to  flowers,  as  kinder  and  more  fair, 
Are  but  torn  love-letters,  that  through  the  skies 
Flutter,  and  float,  and  change  to  butterflies. 

(^Andrew  Lang.) 


130  VICTOR  HUGO 

More  Strong  than  Time 

SINCE  I  have  set  my  lips  to  your  full  cup,  my  sweet, 
Since  I   my  pallid   face  between   your  hands  have  laid, 
Since  I  have  known  your  soul,  and  all  the  bloom  of  it. 
And  all  the  perfume  rare,  now  buried  in  the  shade; 

Since  it  was  given  to  me  to  hear  one  happy  while. 
The  words  wherein  your  heart  spoke  all  its  m.ysteries. 
Since  I  have  seen  you  weep,  and  since  I  have  seen  you  smile, 
Your  lips  upon  my  lips,  and  your  eyes  upon  my  eyes ; 

Since  I  have  known  above  my  forehead  glance  and  gleam, 
A  ray,  a  single  ray,  of  your  star,  veiled  always, 
Since  I  have  felt  the  fall,  upon  my  lifetime's  stream, 
Of  one  rose  petal  plucked  from  the  roses  of  your  days; 

I  now  am  bold  to  say  to  the  swift  changing  hours, 
Pass,  pass  upon  your  way,  for  I  grow  never  old. 
Fleet  to  the  dark  abysm  with  all  your  fading  flowers, 
One  rose  that  none  may  pluck,  within  my  heart  I  hold. 

Your  flying  wings  may  smite,  but  they  can  never  spill 
The  cup  fulfilled  of  love,  from  which  my  lips  are  wet; 
My  heart  has  far  more  fire  than  you  can  frost  to  chill, 
My  soul  more  love  than  you  can  make  my  soul  forget. 

(Andreiv  Lang.) 


The  Poor  Children 

TAKE  heed  of  this  small  child  of  earth; 
He  is  great ;  he  hath  in  him  God  most  high. 
Children  before  their  fleshly  birth 
Are  lights  alive  in  the  blue  sky. 

In  our  light  bitter  world  of  wrong 
They  come ;  God  gives  us  them  awhile. 


VICTOR  HUGO  131 

His  speech  is  in  their   stammering  tongue, 
And  his  forgiveness  in  their  smile. 

Their  sweet  light  rests  upon  our  eyes. 

Alas!   their  right  to  joy  is  plain. 
If  they  are  hungry   Paradise 

Weeps,  and,  if  cold,  Heaven  thrills  with  pain. 

The   want   that    saps   their    sinless   flower 

Speaks  judgment  on  sin's  ministers. 
Man  holds  an  angel  in  his  power. 

Ah !  deep  in  Heaven  what  thunder  stirs. 

When  God  seeks  out  these  tender  things 

Whom  in  the  shadow  where  we  sleep 
He  sends  us  clothed  about  with  wings, 

And  finds  them  ragged  babes  that  weep! 

(Algernon  Charles  Swinburne) 


Her  Name 

A   LILY'S    fragrance    rare,    an    aureole's    pale    splendor, 
The  whisper  of  the  waning  day; 
Love's  passionate  pure  kiss  of  virginal  surrender; 
The  hour  that  breathes   farewell,  mysterious  and  tender; 
The  grief  by  comfort  charmed  away; 

The  sevenfold   scarf  by   storm   emblazed   and  braiden, 

A  trophy  to  the  victor   sun ; 
The  sudden  cadence  of  a  voice  with  memories  laden; 
The  soft  and  simple  vow  from  a  shamefac'd  maiden; 

The  dream  of  a  new  life  begun; 

The  murmur  that  with  orient  Dawn,  rising  to  greet  her. 

From  lips  of   fabled  Memnon  came ; 
The  undulant  hum  remote  of  some  melodious  meter: — 
All  the  soul  dreams  most  sweet,  if  aught  than  these  be  sweeter, 

O  Lyre,  is  less  sweet  than  her  name ! 


132  VICTOR  HUGO 

Even  as   a   muttered  prayer  pronounce   it,   breathing  lowly, 

But  let  it  sound  through  all  our  songs ! 
Be  in  the  darkened  shrine  the  one  light  dim  and  holy! 
Be  as  the  world  divine  that  same  voice,  chaunting  slowly 

From  the  deep  altar-place  prolongs ! 

O  world !  ere  yet  my  Muse,  upborne  in  ample  azure, 

Her  wings  for  wandering  flight  unfolds, 
And    with    those    clamorous    names,    profaned    of    pride    or 

pleasure, 
Dares  blend  that  chaster  one  that,  like  a  sacred  treasure, 

Love  hidden  in  my  heart  still  holds, 

Needs  must  my  song,  while  yet  of  silence  unforsaken, 

Be  like  those  hymns  we  kneel  to  hear, 
And  with  its  solemn  strains  the  tremulous  air  awaken, 
As  though,  with  viewless  plumes  and  unseen  censers  shaken, 

A  flight  of  angels  hovered  near ! 

(IV.  J.  Robertson.) 


To  a  Woman 

CHILD!  if  I  were  a  king,  my  throne  I  would  surrender, 
My  scepter,  and  my  car,  and  kneeling  vavassours, 
My  golden  crown,  and  porphyry  baths,  and  consorts  tender. 
And  fleets  that  fill  the  seas,  and  regal  pomp  and  splendor, 
All  for  one  look  of  yours! 

HI  were  God,  the  earth  and  luminous  deeps  that  span  it, 

Angels  and  demons  bowed  beneath  my  word  divine, 
Chaos   profound,   with    flanks   of    flaming  gold   and  granite, 
Eternity,  and  space,  and  sky,  and  sun,  and  planet, 
All  for  one  kiss  of  thine. 

(W.  J.  Robertson.)    r 


VICTOR  HUGO  133 

New  Song  to  an  Old  Air 

IF  there  be  a  fair  demesne, 
Fresher  than   the  rose   is, 
Where   each    season's    shower   and   sheen 

Some   new   bloom   micloses; 
Where   one   gathers,   hour   by  hour, 
Jasmine,   lily,   honey-flower, 
Would  that  such  might  be  the  bower 
Where  thy  foot  reposes ! 

If  there  be  a  loving  breast, 

Honor  so  disposes, 
That  of  all  her  gifts  the  best 

Love   therein   encloses ; 
If   this   noble   bosom   yield 
High   desires   to  love   revealed, 
Would  that  such  might  be  the  shield 

Where  thy  head   reposes ! 

If  there  be  a  dream  of  love. 

Odorous  with  roses. 
Whence  each  day  that  dawns  above 

Some  sweet  thing  discloses; 
Dream  that  God   himself  hath  blessed, 
Wherein  soul  with  soul  may  rest. 
Would  that  such  might  be  the  nest 

Where  thy  heart  reposes ! 

(W.  J.  Robertson.) 

In  a  Church 

O    WOMAN !  why  these  tears  that  dim  your  sight, 
These  brows  with  sorrow  drawn? 
You,  whose  pure  heart  is  somber  as  the  night. 
And  tender  as  the  dawn? 

What  though  the  unequal  lot,  lo  some  made  sweet, 
To   some  deals  bitter  dole ; 


134  VICTOR  HUGO 

Though  life  gives  way  and  sinks  beneath  your  feet, 
Should   that  dismay  the  soul? 

The  soul,  that  seeks  ere  long  a  purer  realm, 

Where  beyond  storm  is  peace, 
Where  beyond  griefs  that  surge  and  overwhelm. 

This  world's  low  murmurings  cease ! 

Be  like  the  bird  that,  on  the  branch  at  rest 

For  a  brief  moment,  sings ; 
For  though  the  frail  bough  bends  beneath  her  breast 

She  knows  that  she  has  wings! 

(W.  J.  Robertson.) 


This  Age  Is  Great  and  Strong 

THIS  age  is  great   and  strong.     Her   chains  are  riTCB. 
Thought  on  the  march  of  man  her  mission  sends; 
Toil's  clamor  mounts  on  human  speech  to  heaven. 
And  with  the  sound  divine  of  Nature  blends. 

In  cities  and  in  solitary  stations 

Man  loves  the  milk  wherewith  we  nourish  him; 
And,  in  the  shapeless  block  of  somber  nations, 

Thought  molds  in  dreams  new  peoples  grand  and  dim. 

New  days  draw  nigh.     Hushed  is  the  riot's  clangor. 

The  Greve  is  cleansed,  the  old  scaffold  crumbUng  lies. 
Volcano   torrents,   like   the  people's  anger, 

First  devastate  and  after  fertilize. 

Now  mighty  poets,  touched  by  God's  own  finger, 
Shed  from  inspired  brows  their  radiant  beams. 

Art   has   fresh   valleys,    where   our   souls   may  linger. 
And  drink  deep  draughts  of  song  from  sacred  streams. 

Stone  upon  stone,  remembering  antique  manners, 
In   times   that    shake   with  every   storm-wind   wild. 


VICTOR  HUGO  135 

The  thinker  rears  these  columns,  crowned  with  banners — 
Respect  for  gray  old  age,  love  for  the  child. 

Beneath  our  roof-tree  Duty  and  Right  his  father 
Dwell  once  again,  august  and  honored  guests, 

The  outcasts  that  around   our  thresholds   gather 
Come  with  less  flaming  eyes,  less  hateful  breasts. 

No  longer  Truth  closes  her  austere  portals. 

Deciphered  is  each  word,  each  scroll  unfurled. 
Learning  the   book   of    life,   enfranchised   mortals 

Find  a  new  sense  and  secret  in  the  world. 

O  poets !    Iron  and  steam,  with  fiery  forces. 
Lift  from  the  earth,  while  yet  your  dreams  float  round, 

Time's  ancient  load,  that  clogged  the  chariot's  courses. 
Crushing  with  heavy  wheels  the  hard  rough  ground, 

Man  by  his  puissant  will  subdues  blind  matter, 
Thinks,  seeks,  creates !    With  living  breath  fulfilled, 

The  seeds  that  Nature's  hands  store  up  and  scatter 
Thrill  as  the  forest  leaves  by  winds  are  thrilled. 

Yea,  all  things  move  and  grow.     The  fleet  hours  flying 
Leave  each  their  track.     The  age  has   risen  up  great 

And  now  between  its  luminous  banks,  far-lying, 
Man  like  a  broadened  river  sees  his  fate. 

But  in  this  boasted  march  from  wrong  and  error, 
'Mid  the  vast  splendor  of  an  age  that  glows, 

One  thing,  O  Jesus,  fills  my  soul  with  terror: 
The  echo  of  thy  voice  still  feebler  grows! 

(W.  J.  Robertson.) 


A  Hymn  of  the  Earth 

HER  throne  is  the  meadow,  the  field  and  the  plain, 
She  is  dear  to  the  sowers  and  reapers  of  grain, 
To  the  shepherds  that  sleep  on  the  heather; 


136  VICTOR  HUGO 

She  warms  her  chill  breast  in  the  fires  of  the  suns 
And  laughs,  when  with  stars  in  their  circle  she  runs. 
As  with  sisters  rejoicing  together. 

She  loves   the  bright  beam   that   caresses   the   wheat, 
And  the  cleansing  of  winds  in  her  aether  is  sweet, 

And  the  lyre  of  the  tempest  that  thunders; 
And  the  lightning  whose  brow,  when  it  shines  and  takes  flight 
In  a  flash  that  appals  and  appeases  the  night. 

Is  a  smile  from  the  welkin  it  sunders. 

Glory  to  earth!     To  the  dawn  of  God's  gaze! 
To  the  swarming  of  eyes  in  the  woodland  ablaze, 

To  nests  by  the  sunrise  made  splendid ! 
Hail  to  the  whitening  of   moon-smitten  heights ! 
Hail  to  the  azure  that  squanders  her  lights 

From  treasuries  never  expended ! 

Earth  loves  the  blue  heaven  that  shines  equal  on  all. 
Whose   radiance  sheds   calm   on   the   throne   and   the  thrall, 

Who  blends  with  our  wrongs  and  remorses, 
With  our  sorrows,  that  burst  into  laughter  too  bold, 
With  our  sins,  with  our  fevers  of  glory  and  gold, 

The  song  of  the  stars  in  their  courses. 

Earth  is  calm  when  the  sea  groans  beneath  her  and  grieves. 
Earth  is  beautiful;  see  how  she  hides  under  leaves 

The   maidenly   shame   of   her   blushes! 
Spring  comes,  like  a  lover,  to  kiss  her  in  May; 
She  sends  up  the  smoke  of  the  village  to  stay 

The  wrath  of  the  thunder  that  rushes. 

Smite  not,  O  thunder!  the  humble  lie  here: 
Earth  is  bountiful;  yet  is  she  grave  and  severe; 

And  pure  as  her  roses  in  blossom : 
Man  pleases  her  best  when  he  labors  and  thinks; 
And  her  Love  io  the  well-spring  that  all  the  world  drinks, 

And  Truth  is  the  milk  of  her  bosom. 


VICTOR  HUGO  137 

Earth  hoards  up  her  gold,  but  her  harvest  she  wears; 
In  the  flank  of  dead  seasons  that  sleep  in  her  lairs, 

The  germs  of  new  seasons  assemble; 
She  has  birds  in  the  azure  that  whisper  of  love, 
Springs  that  gush  in  the  vales,  and  on  mountains  above 

Vast  forests  of  pine-trees  that  tremble. 

Wide  weaver  of  harmonies  under  the  skies, 
She  bids  the  salute  of  the  slender  reed  rise 

With  joy  to  the  height  of  the  cedar; 
For  her  law  is  the  lowly  that  loves  the  sublime, 
And  she  bases  the  right  of  the  cedar  to  climb 

On  the  will  of  the  grasses  that  feed  her. 

She  levels  mankind  in  the  grave ;  at  the  end 
Alexander's  and  Caesar's  proud  ashes  descend 

With  the  dust  of  the  cowherd  to  crumble; 
The  soul  she  sends  heavenward,  the  carcass  she  keeps, 
And  disdains,  in  the  doom  of  oblivious  deeps. 

To  distinguish  the  high  from  the  humble. 

Each  debt  she  discharges ;   the  branch  to  the  root. 
The  night  to  the  day,  and  the  flower  to  the  fruit; 

She  nourishes  all  she  engenders ; 
The  plant  that  has  faith  when  the  man  is  in  doubt; 
O  blasphemy  shame  against  Nature  to  flout 

With  his  shadow  the  soul  of  her  splendors ! 

Her  breast  was  the  cradle,  her  breast  is  the  tomb. 
Of  Adam  and  Japheth;  she  wrought  out  the  doom 

Of  the  cities  of  Isus  and  Horus ; 
Where   Sparta  lies  mourning,   where   Memphis  lies  crushed, 
Wheresoever  the  voice  of  man  spake  and  is  hushed. 

The  grasshopper's  song  is  sonorous. 

For  why?    That  her  joy  may  give  comfort  to  graves. 
For  why?     That  the  ruin  and  wreck  of  Time's  waves 
May  be  guerdoned  with  glorification, 


138  VICTOR  HUGO 

The  voice  that  says  No  with  the  voice  that  says  Aye, 
And  the  passing  of  peoples  that  vanish  and  die 
With  the  mystical  chaunt  of   creation. 

Earth's  friends  are  the  reapers ;  at  twilight  her  face 
On   the  broad  horizon  would  gladly  give  chase 

To  the  swarm  of  the  hungering  ravens ; 
At  the  hour  when  the  oxen   in  weariness  low, 
When  homeward  with  joy  the  brown  husbandmen  go. 

Like   ships   that   return  to   their  havens. 

She  gives  birth  without  end  to  the  flowers  of  the  sod; 
The  flowers  never  raise  their  reproaches  to  God; 

From  lilies,  still  chaste  in   their  splendor. 
From  myrtles  that  thrill  to  the  wind  not  a  cry, 
Not  a  murmur  from  vineyards  ascends  to  the  sky. 

On  their  innocence  smiling  and  tender. 

Earth   spreads   a    dark    scroll   beneath    the   dense    boughs; 
She  does  what  she  can,  and  with  peace  she  endows 

The  rocks  and  the  shrubs  and  the  rivers. 
To  enlighten  us,  children  of  Hermes  and  Shem, 
Whose  pages  the  porings  of  Reason  condemn 

To  a  lamp-light  that  flickers  and  shivers. 

The  end  of  her  being  is  birth  and  not  death ; 
Not  jaws  to  devour,  but  a  life-giving  breath; 

When  with  havoc  of  battle   is  riven 
Man's  furrow  and  blood-bathed  the  track  that  war  cleaves, 
Earth  turns  her  wild  look,  that   is  angry  and  grieves, 

From  the  plowshare  by  wickedness  driven? 

Blasted,  she  asks  him:  Why  kill  the  green  plain? 
What  fruit  will  the  wilderness  give,  and  whose  gain 

Shall  be  garnered  from  ruin  and  ravage? 
No  boon  to  her  bounty  the  evil  one  yields. 
And  she  weeps  on  the  virginal  beauty  of  fields 

Deflowered  by  the  lust  of  the  savage. 


VICTOR  HUGO  139 

Alma  Ceres  was  Earth,  and  Earth's  goddess  of  old, 
She  beamed  with  blue  eyes  over  meadow  and  wold, 

And  still  the  world  rings  with  her  posan ; 
"Sons,  I  am  Demeter,  divine,  of  divine, 
"Ye  shall  build  me  a  temple  of   splendor  to  shine 

"On  the  slopes  of  the  Callichorean." 

(IV.  J.  Robertson.) 


The  Streets  and  the  JFoods 

BEWARE,  my  friend,  of  pretty  girls; 
Shun  the  bower  of  the  fallen  goddess : 
Fear  the  charm  of  the  skirt  that  whirls, 
The    shapely    bust    and    the    well-laced    bodice. 

Look  to  your  wings,   bird,   when   you   fly! 

Look  to  your  threads,   O   doll  that  dances ! 
Turn   from   the   light  of    Calypso's  eye, 

And  flee  from  the  fire  of  Jenny's  glances! 

When  they  grow  tender,  then  be  sure 
That  slavery  lurks  within  their  rapture; 

Love's  A  B  C  is  Art  to  allure. 
Beauty  that  blinds  and  a  Charm  to  capture ! 

The   sun-light   gilds   a   prison-cell ; 

A  fragrant  rose  the  goal  refreshes: 
And  just  like  these,  you  see,  is  the  spell 

Of  a  girl  that  lures  you  into  her  meshes. 

Once  caught,  your  soul  is  a  somber  lyre, 
And  in  your  thought  are  storms  that  thunder! 

And  weeping  follows  dead  desire 

Ere  you  have  time  to  smile  and  wonder ! 

Come  to  the  fields !   Spring's  gladsome  voice 
Thrills   the   vast   oaks   and   wakes   the   mountains, 

The  meadows   smile,  the  woods   rejoice, 
Sing  O  the  charm  of  crystal  fountains ! 

(W.  J.  Robertson.) 


140  VICTOR  HUGO 

To  the  Imperious  Beauty 

LOVE,  like  a  panic 
Seizing   the  will, 
Leaps  to  tyrannic 
Sway  with  a  thrill. 


Let  me  beseech  you, 

Turn  and  refuse; 
When    my   sighs    reach   you 

Sing,   if  you  choose. 


If  I  come  kneeling, 
Near  you  to  dwell, 

See  my  tears  stealing. 
Laugh,  it  is  well. 

Man   may   dissemble 

So  to  ensnare : 
But  if  I  tremble, 

Beauty,   beware ! 


(W.  J.  Robertson.) 


Morning 


MORNING  glances  hither. 
Now  the  shade  is  past; 
Dream  and   fog  fly  thither 

Where  Night  goes  at  last; 
Open  eyes   and   roses 
As  the  darkness  closes; 
And  the  sound  that  grows  is 
Nature  waking  fast: 

Murmuring  all   and   singing, 
Hark !  the  news  is  stirred. 

Roof  and  creepers  clinging, 
Smoke  and  nest  of  bird; 


VICTOR  HUGO  141 

Winds  to  oak-trees  bear  it, 
Streams    and    fountains    hear    it, 
Every  breath  and  spirit 
As  a  voice  is  heard. 


All  takes  up  its   story, 

Child   resumes  his   play. 
Hearth  its  ruddy  glory. 

Lute  its  lifted  lay. 
Wild  or  out  of  senses, 
Through  the  world  immense  is 
Sound    as    each   commences 

Schemes  of  yesterday. 

(W.  M.  Hardinge.) 


The  Pool  and  the  Soul 

AS  in  some  stagnant  pool  by  forest-side, 
In  human  souls  two  things  are  oft  described; 
The  sky, — which  tints  the  surface  of  the  pool 
With  all  its  rays,  and  all  its  shadows  cool ; 
The  basin  next, — where  gloomy,  dark  and  deep, 
Through   slime   and   mud   black   reptiles    vaguely   creep. 

(R.  F.  Hodgson.) 


The  Poet's  Simple  Faith 

YOU   say,  "Where  goest  thou?"    I   cannot  tell, 
And  still  go  on.    If  but  the  way  be  straight. 
It  cannot  go  amiss !  before  me  lies 
Dawn   and    the    Day;    the    Night    behind    me;    that 
Suffices  me ;  I  break  the  bounds ;   I  see, 
And  nothing  more ;  believe,  and  nothing  less. 
My  future  is  not  one  of  my  concerns. 

(Prof.  Edward  Dowden.) 


142  ALEXANDER  DUMAS 

ALEXANDER  DUMAS    (1803- 1870) 

Don  Juan's  Song 
{Don  Juan  de  Marana,  Act  11,  Tab.  2,  Sc.  i.) 

THIS    evening,   whilst   walking  alone   on  the   strand, 
Where  I  for  an  hour  went,  in  dreams  of  you  drowned, 
My  heart  I  let  fall,  and  forgot  in  the  sand, 
Where  you,  lady  mine,  coming  after,  it  found. 

Now  how  shall  we  do  to  arrange  this  affair? 
Long  law  suits  are;  judges  are  bought,  every  one. 
The  cause  I  shall  lose;  and  yet  how  shall  I  fare? 
For  you  have  two  hearts;  and  poor  I,  I  have  none. 

Yet  each  with  good  will  'twere  the  king  to  arrange 
And  loss  often  leadeth  to  vantage,  in  fine : 
Between  us  let's  make  of  the  two  an  exchange; 
Nay,  give  me  your  heart,  lady  fair,  and  keep  mine. 

(John  Payne.) 

CHARLES-AUGUSTIN  SAINTE-BEUVE   (1804-1869) 

Wish 

OH,  might  I   for  three  years  but  have  my  table  spread 
With  pure  fresh  milk,  a  black-eyed  damsel  in  my  bed. 
Leisure  all  day  to  dream  and  mingle  tears  with  dreams. 
To  sleep  at  noon  beneath  the  shade  of  great  hornbeams, 
To  see  the  vine  o'errun  my  roof  and  far  and  wide 
The   smiling  valley   stretch   beneath   the   green   hill-side, 
Each  night  to  madness  sweet  myself  in  sleep  to  yield, 
Like  to  the  happy  rill  that  loiters  through  my  field, 
For  nothing  more  to  wish,  remember  nought ;  in  sum. 
Let  me  but  live  my  life, — and  then,  well,  Death  may  come. 

(John  Payne.) 


CHARLES-AUGUSTIN  SAINTE-BEUVE       143 

Reverie 

'ryilS    night:    upon    her    mystic    throne, 

X      I  see  the  silver  moon  arise; 
The  heav'ns  with  silver  stars  are  strown: 
As  'twere  a  lake,  that  stirless  lies. 
Immense,  my  soul  reflects  the  skies. 

Upon  the  waveless  tides  of  thought, 
In  that  fair  golden-sanded  sea, 
The  azure  vault  of  heav'n,  rewrought. 
With  many  a  softened  color  fraught. 
Anew  depictured  is  for  me. 

Enamored  of  its  image  bright, 
I  first  enjoy  it  at  mine  ease; 
But  soon,  desiring  more  than  sight. 
Rash  stripling,  greedy  poet-wight, 
I  stretch  my  hand  out  it  to  seize. 

Farewell,   forthright,   vault   star-engrailed ! 
Farewell,  white  light  and  spotless  sheen ! 
Within  my  shaken  soul,  assailed, 
Phoebe  her  trembling  face  that  veiled; 
The  sky  hath  lost  its  blue  serene. 

Phoebe,   hide   not  thy   face   from   view! 
See :  I  renounce  my  hopes  unwise. 
The  tide  grows   slowly  calm  and  blue 
Again  and  my  stilled  soul  anew 
Becomes  the  mirror  of  the  skies. 

To  seize  the  image  of  delight. 
Shall  I  again  disturb  the  stream? 
Nay,  bent  above  the  surface  bright, 
Since  now  unclouded  is  the  night. 
Dream  will  I  rather,  ever  dream. 

(John  Payne.) 


144  GERARD  DE  NERVAL 

GERARD  DE  NERVAL   (1808-1855) 
An  Old  Tune 

THERE   is   an   air   for   which   I   would   disown 
Mozart's,    Rossini's,    Weber's    melodies, — 
A  sweet  sad  air  that  languishes  and  sighs, 
And  keeps  its  secret  charm  for  me  alone. 

Whene'er  I  hear  that  music  vague  and  old, 
Two  hundred  years  are  mist  that  rolls  away; 

The  thirteenth  Louis  reigns,  and  I  behold 
A  green  land  golden  in  the  dying  day. 

An  old  red  castle,  strong  with  stony  towers. 
The  windows  gay  with  many  colored  glass; 

Wide  plains,  and  rivers  flowing  among  flowers, 
That  bathe  the  castle  basement  as  they  pass. 

In  antique  weed,  with  dark  eyes  and  gold  hair, 
A  lady  looks   forth  from  her  window  high; 

It  may  be  that  I  knew  and  found  her  fair. 
In  some  forgotten  life,  long  time  gone  by. 

(^Andrew  Lang.) 

In  the  Woods 

THE  small  bird's  born  and  sings  in  Spring: 
Have  you  not  hearkened  to  his  lay? 
A  simple,   pure  and   touching  thing. 
The  small  bird's  song  upon  the  spray! 

The  small  bird  mates  in  summer  new; 
He  lives  and  loves  but  for  a  day. 
How  peaceful  'tis,  how  sweet  and  true, 
The  small  bird's  nest  upon  the  spray! 


GERARD  DE  NERVAL  145 

Then,  when  the  Autumn  cometh,  he 
Is  mute  before  the  frost-time  gray: 
Alas!  How  happy  must  it  be, 
The  small  bird's  death  upon  the  spray! 

(John  Payne.) 


"El  Desdichado" 

I    AM  that  dark,  that  disinherited, 
That  all  dishonored  Prince  of  Aquitaine, 
The  Star  upon  my  scutcheon  long  hath  fled; 
A  black  sun  on  my  hite  doth  yet  remain ! 
Oh,  thou  that  didst  console  me  not  in  vain. 
Within  the  Tomb,  among  the  midnight  dead, 
Show  me  Italian  seas,  and  blossoms  wed, 
The  rose,  the  wine-leaf,  and  the  golden  grain. 

Say,  am  I  Love  or  Phoebus?    Have  I  been 
Or  Lusignan  or  Biron?     By  a  queen 

Caressed  within  the  Mermaid's  haunt  I  lay, 
And  twice  I  crossed  the  unpermitted  stream. 
And  touched  an  Orpheus'  lute  as  in  a  dream, 

Sighs  of  a  Saint,  and  laughter  of  a  Fay ! 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


ALFRED  DE  MUSSET  (1810-1857) 
Jiiana 

AGAIN  I  see  you,  ah  my  queen. 
Of   all   my   old   loves   that   have  been, 
The  first  love,  and  the  tenderest; 
Do  you  remember  or  forget — 
Ah  me,  for  I  remember  yet — 
How  the  last  summer  days  were  blest? 


146  ALFRED  DE  MUSSET 

Ah   lady,   when   we  think  of   this, 
The  foolish  hours  of  youth  and  bliss, 

How  fleet,  how  sweet,  how  hard  to  hold. 
How  old  we  are,  ere  spring  be  green. 
You  touch  the  limit  of  eighteen 

And  I  am  twenty  winters  old. 

My  rose,  that  mid  the  red  roses, 
Was  brightest,  ah,  how  pale  she  is. 

Yet  keeps  the  beauty  of  her  prime; 
Child,  never  Spanish  lady's  face 
Was  lovely  with  so  wild  a  grace; 

Remember  the   dead   summertime. 

Think  of  our  loves,  our  feuds  of  old, 
And  how  you  gave  your  chain  of  gold 

To  me  for  a  peace  offering; 
And  how  all  night  I  lay  awake 
To  touch  and  kiss  it  for  your  sake, — 

To  touch  and  kiss  the  lifeless  thing. 

Lady,  beware  for  all  we  say. 
This  love  shall  live  another  day, 

Awakened  from  his  deathly  sleep; 
The  heart  that  once  has  been  your  shrine 
For  other  loves  is  too  divjne; 

A  home,  my  dear,  too  wide  and  deep. 

What  did  I   say,— why  do  I  dream? 
Why  should  I  struggle  with  the  stream 

Whose  waves  return  not  any  day? 
Close  heart,  and  eyes,  and  arms  from  me; 
Farewell,  farewell,  so  must  it  be. 

So  runs,  so  runs,  the  world  away. 

The  season  bears  upon  its  wing 
The  swallows  and  the  songs  of  spring, 
And  days  that  were,  and  days  that  flit; 


ALFRED  DE  MUSSET  147 

The  loved  lost  hours  are  far  away; 
And  hope  and  fame  are  scattered  spray 
For  me,  that  gave  you  love  a  day 
For  you  that  not  remember  it. 

{Andrew  Lang.) 

Tristesse 
(J'ai  perdu  ma  force  et  ma  vie) 

LOST  is  my  strength,  my  mirth,  the  joy  intense 
Of  very  life,  the  comrades  and  the  zest; — 

All,  even  to  my  pride,  that  unsuppressed 
Had  wrought  my  spirit  to  self-confidence. 
When  truth  I  recognized,  my  raptured  sense 

Dreamed  I  had  found  a  love  to  be  caressed; 

But  palling  as  I  clasped  her  to  my  breast 
Loathing  and  ashes  were  my  recompense. 
Yet  is  she  still  divine;  and  they  that  curled 

The  lip  in  sight  of  her  have  dulled  their  ears 
To  wisdom's  echoes  in  our  under-world. 

God  speaks:  perforce  my  naked  soul  replies;— 

One  thing  of  all  is  left  me,— that  mine  eyes 
Have  sometimes  been  not  unacquaint  with  tears. 

(James  Robertson.) 

THEOPHILE  GAUTIER  (1811-1872) 
Art^ 

ALL  things  are  doubly  fair 
If  patience  fashion  them 
And  care — 
Verse,  enamel,  marble,  gem. 

No  idle  chains  endure: 
Yet,  Muse,  to  walk  aright 

Lace   tight 
Thy  buskin   proud   and   sure. 

»From"TheHerinitof  Carmeland  Other  Poems";  copyright,  igoi ,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


148  THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

Fie  on  facile  measure, 
A  shoe  where  every  lout 

At  pleasure 
Slip  his  foot  in  and  out! 

Sculptor  lay  by  the  clay 

On  which  thy  nerveless  finger 

May  linger, 
Thy  thoughts  flown  far  away. 

Keep   to   Carrara  rare, 
Struggle  with  Paros  cold, 

That  hold 
The  subtle  line  and  fair. 

Lest  haply  nature  lose 

That  proud,  that  perfect  line. 

Make  thine 
The  bronze  of  Syracuse. 

And  with  a  tender  dread 
Upon  an  agate's  face 

Retrace 
Apollo's  golden  head. 

Despise  a  watery  hue 
And  tints  that  soon  expire. 

With  fire 
Burn  thine  enamel  true. 

Twine,  twine  in  artful  wise 
The  blue-green  mermaid's  arms. 

Mid  charms 
Of  thousand  heraldries. 

Show  in  their  triple  lobe 
Virgin  and  Child,  that  hold 

Their  globe, 
Cross  crowned  and  aureoled. 


THEOPHILE  GAUTIER  149 

— 'All  things  return  to  dust 
Save  beauties  fashioned  well 

The  bust 
Outlasts  the  citadel. 

Oft  doth  the  plowman's  heel 
Breaking  an  ancient  clod, 

Reveal 
A  Caesar  or  a  god. 

The  gods,  too,  die,  alas! 

But  deathless  and  more  strong 

Than  brass 
Remains  the  sovereign  song. 

Chisel  and  carve  and  file, 
Till  thy  vague  dream  imprint 

Its  smile 
On  the  unyielding  flint. 

(George  Santayana.) 


Posthumous  Coquetry 

LET  there  be  laid,  when  I  am  dead, 
Ere  'neath  the  coffin-lid  I  lie. 
Upon  my  cheek  a  little  red, 
A  little  black  about  the  eye. 

For  I  in  my  close  bier  would  fain. 
As  on  the  night  his  vows  were  made, 
Rose-red  eternally  remain, 
With  khol  beneath  my  blue  eye  laid. 

Wind  me  no  shroud  of  linen  down 
My  body  to  my  feet,  but  fold 


150  THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

The  white  folds  of  my  muslin  gown 
With  thirteen  flounces  as  of  old. 

This  shall  go  with  nie  where  I  go: 
I  wore  it  when  I  won  his  heart; 
His  first  look  hallowed  it,  and  so, 
For  him,  I  laid  the  gown  apart. 

No  immortelles,  no  broidered  grace 
Of  tears  upon  my  cushions  be; 
Lay  me  on  my  pillow's  lace, 
My  hair  across  it  like  a  sea. 

That  pillow,  those  mad  nights  of  old. 
Has  seen  our  slumbering  brows  unite. 
And  'neath  the  gondola's  black  fold 
Has  counted  kisses  infinite. 

Between  my  hands  of  ivory. 
Together  set  for  prayer  and  rest. 
Place  then  the  opal  rosary 
The  holy  Pope  at  Rome  has  blest. 

I  will  lie  down  then  on  that  bed 
And  sleep  the  sleep  that  shall  not  cease; 
His  mouth  upon  my  m^uth  has  said 
Pater  and  Ave  for  my  peace. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


Clarimonde 

WITH  elbow  buried  in  the  downy  pillow 
Fve   lain  and   read, 
All  through  the  night,  a  volume  strangely  written 
In  tongues  long  dead. 

For  at  my  bedside  lie  no  dainty  slippers; 
And,  save  my  own, 


THEOPHILE  GAUTIER  151 

Under  the  paling  lamp  I  hear  no  breathing:— 
I  am  alone! 

But  there  are  yellow  bruises  on  my  body 

And  violet  stains ; 
Though  no  white  vampire  came  with  lips  blood-crimsoned 

To  suck  my  veins  1 

Now  I  bethink  me  of  a  sweet  weird  story, 

That  in  the  dark 
Our  dead  loves  thus  with  seal  of  chilly  kisses 

Our  bodies  mark. 

Gliding  beneath  the  coverings  of  our  couches 

They  share  our  rest, 
And  with  their  dead  lips  sign  their  loving  visit 

On  arm  and  breast. 

Darksome  and  cold  the  bed  where  now  she  slumbers, 

I  loved  in  vain, 
With  sweet  eyelids  closed,  to  be  reopened 

Never  again. 

Dead  sweetheart,  can  it  be  that  thou  hast  lifted 

With  thy  frail  hand 
Thy  coffin-lid,  to  come  to  me  again 

From  shadowland? 

Thou  who,  one  joyous  night,  didst,  pale  and  speechless. 

Pass  from  us  all, 
Dropping  thy  silken  mask  and  gift  of  flowers 

Amidst  the  ball? 

Oh,  fondest  of  my  loves,  from  that  far  heaven 

Where  thou  must  be, 
Hast  thou  returned  to  pay  the  debt  of  kisses 

Thou  owest  to  me? 

(Lafcadio  Hearn.) 


152  THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

Love  at  Sea 

WE  are  In  love's  land  to-day ; 
Where  shall  we  go? 
Love,  shall  we  start  or  stay, 

Or  sail  or  row? 
There's  many  a  wind  and  way, 
And  never  a  May  but  May; 
We  are  in  love's  land  to-day; 
Where  shall  we  go? 

Our  landwind  is  the  breath 
Of  sorrows  kissed  to  death 

And  joys  that  were; 
Our  ballast  is  a  rose; 
Our  way  lies  where  God  knows 

And  love  knows  where 

We  are  in  love's  land  to-day— 

Our  seamen  are  fledged  loves, 
Our  masts  are  bills  of  doves, 

Our  decks  fine  gold ; 
Our  ropes  are  dead  maids'  hair, 
Our  stores  are  love-shafts  fair 

And  manifold. 

We  are  in  love's  land  to-day— 

Where  shall  we  land  you,  sweet? 
On  fields  of  strange  men's  feet, 

Or  fields  near  home? 
Or  where  the  fire-flowers  blow. 
Or  where  the  flowers  of  snow 

Or  flowers  of  foam? 

We  are  in  love's  land  to-day- 
Land  me,  she  says,  where  love 
Shows  but  one  shaft,  one  dove, 

One  heart,  one  hand. 


THEOPHILE  GAUTIER  153 

— A  shore  like  that,  my  dear, 
Lies  where  no  man  will  steer, 
No  maiden  land. 

(Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.) 


A  Verse  of  JVordsworth 

NO  verse  I  know,  save  one,  of  Wordsworth's  art, 
That  rankled  so  in  Byron's  bitter  leaven, 
One  verse  that  echoes  ever  in  my  heart 
Of  "Spires  whose  silent  finger  points  to  heaven." 

It  served  as  epigraph  (how  strange  a  place!) 
Heading  a  chapter  from  the  loves  impure 

Of  some  frail  girl ;  the  book  a  foul  disgrace 
Drawn  from  the  Dead  Ass  by  a  hand  obscure. 

This  fresh  and  pious  verse,  among  the  loves 
Of  a  lewd  volume  lost,  refused  my  sight 

Like  a  wild  blossom  shed,  or  like  a  dove's 
White  plume  on  the  back  puddle  dropped  in  flight. 

Now,  when  the  Muse  rebels,  when  to  no  sign 
Of  Prospero's  wand  will  Ariel's  wing  be  given, 

I  fringe  my  margins  with  a  quaint  design 
Of  spires  whose  silent  finger  points  to  heaven. 

(W.  J.  Robertson.) 


LECONTE  DE  LISLE  (1818-1894) 
Hialmar  Speaks  to  the  Raven 

NIGHT  in  the  bloodstained  snow:  the  wind  is  chill: 
And  there  a  thousand  tombless  warriors  lie, 
Grasping  their  swords,  wild-featured.    All  are  still. 
Above  them  the  black  ravens  wheel  and  cry. 


154.  LECONTE  DE  LISLE 

A  brilliant  moon  sends  her  cold  light  abroad: 
Hialmar  arises  from  the  reddened  slain, 
Heavily  leaning  on  his  broken  sword, 
And  bleeding  from  his  side  the  battle-rain. 

"Hail  to  you  all :  is  there  one  breath  still  drawn 
Among  those  fierce  and  fearless  lads  who  played 
So  merrily,  and   sang  as  sweet  in  the  dawn 
As  thrushes  singing  in  the  bramble  shade? 

"They  have  no  word  to  say :  my  helm's  unbound. 
My  breastplate  by  the  axe  unriveted : 
Blood's  on  my  eyes ;  I  hear  a  spreading  sound, 
Like  waves  or  wolves  that  clamor  in  my  head. 

"Eater  of  men,  old  raven,  come  this  way. 
And  with  thine  iron  bill  open  my  breast, 
To-morrow  find  us  where  we  lie  to-day, 
And  bear  my  heart  to  her  that  I  love  best 

"Through  Upsala,  where  drink  the  Jarls  and  sing, 
And  clash  their  golden  bowls  in  company. 
Bird  of  the  moor,  carry  on  tireless  wing 
To  Ylmer's  daughter  there  the  heart  of  me. 

"And  thou  shalt  see  her  standing  straight  and  pale. 
High  pedestaled  on  some  rook-haunted  tower: 
She  has  two  ear-rings,  silver  and  vermeil, 
And  eyes  like  stars  that  shine  in  sunset  hour. 

"Tell  her  my  love,  thou  dark  bird  ominous ; 
Give  her  my  heart,  no  bloodless  heart  and  vile 
But  red  compact  and  strong,  O  raven.  Thus 
Shall  Ylmer's  daughter  greet  thee  with  a  smile. 

"Now  let  my  life  from  twenty  deep  wounds  flow, 
And  wolves  may  drink  the  blood.     My  time  is  done. 
Young,  brave  and  spotless,  I  rejoice  to  go 
And  sit  where  all  the  Gods  are,  in  the  sun." 

{James  Elroy  Flecker.) 


LECONTE  DE  LISLE  155 


The  Virgin  Forest 

S[NCE  the  primaeval  day,  when  first  from  seed  it  grew, 
The  forest  without  end  its  surging  waves  of  leaves, 
Like  to  a  somber  sea,  with  some  vast  sigh  that  heaves, 
With  puissant  arm  prolong  into  th'  horizon  blue. 

Man  was  not  yet  upon  the  soil  convulsive  bred. 
When  it,  already,  it,  a  thousand  centuries  old, 
With  its  repose,  its  shade,  its  anger,  had  in  hold 

A  vast  tract  of  the  globe,  yet  uninhabited. 

In  the  vertiginous  course  of  the  unresting  days. 
From  the  wide  waters'  breast,  under  the  radiant  skies. 
It  hath,  one  after  one,   seen  continents  arise 

And  others  sink  afar,  like  dreams,  beneath  the  haze. 

The  flaming  summer-days  on  it  have  shed  their  sheen; 
The  raging  winds  have  tossed  and  blown  and  battered  it : 
The  levin-stroke  upon  its  ragged  stems  hath  bit; 

In  vain ;  the  invincible  hath  still  again  grown  green. 

It  rolleth,  bearing  in  its  gorges  and  its  caves. 

Its  moss-clad  rocks,  its  lakes  with  misted,  bristling  shores. 
Where,  in  the  somber  nights,  the  alligator  roars 

Mid  the  thick  reeds,  with  eyes  dull-shining  through  the  waves ; 

Its  yelling  monstrous-paunched  gorillas  and  its  broods 
Of  elephants,  with  skin  cracked  like  some  age-old  bark. 
That  with  their  puissant  gait  break  down  the  trellis  dark, 

Intoxicated  with  the  horror  of  the  woods; 

Its  surly  buffaloes,  flat-fronted,  to  the  eyes 

Buried  in  the  deep  mud  of  the  great  water-holes; 
Its  lions  ruddy-maned,  with  eyes  like  blazing  coals 

And  tails  that  sweep  away  the  strident  swarms  of  flies; 


156  LECONTE  DE  LISLE 

Its  monstrous  rivers  full,  wide-wandering,  profound. 
Fallen  from  the  distant  peaks,  without  or  name  or  shore. 
Their  wild  and  foaming  tides  that  brusquely  turn  and  pour 

From  gulf  to  farther  gulf  with  one  resistless  bound: 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  sands,  from  gorge  and  glade  and  dell, 
From  bush  and  herb  and  tree,  from  gully,  glen  and  shore, 
Incessantly  there  soars  and  swells  the  ancient  roar, 

Which  hath  fore'er  exhaled  its  breast  imperishable. 

The  ages  pass  and  nought  hath  breached  it  any  what; 

Nought  its  immortal  strength  exhausted  hath  a  whit; 

Nay,  needs,  to  make  an  end,  must  earth,  from  under  it 
Crumbling  in  pieces  fall,  as  'twere  a  broken  pot. 

Wait  not  its  term ;  but  of  to-morrow  be  afraid, 
O  forest !  This  old  globe  to  live  hath  many  a  day. 
O  dam  of  lions,  death  for  thee  is  on  the  way; 

The  ax  unto  the  root  of  this  thy  pride  is  laid. 

Upon  this  burning  shore,  where,  bending  o'er  the  sand 
Their  green  primaeval  domes,  thy  thickest  clumps  of  trees 
Vast  blocks  of  shadow  cast,  light-circled,  where  one  sees 

Thy  pensive  elephants  in  meditation   stand, 

Like  an  irruptive  swarm  of  ants  a-wayfaring, 
That,  crushed  and  burned,  fare  on  their  foreappointed  ways, 
The  waster  of  the  woods,  king  of  the  latter  days, 

Man  of  the  pallid  face,  the  waves  to  thee  shall  bring. 

So  long  will  he  have  gnawed  and  pillaged  to  the  last 
The  world  wherein  there  swarms  his  never-sated  race. 
That  to  thy  swelling  paps,  whence  life  yet  flows  apace, 

He,  in  his  hunger,  will,  and  in  his  thirst,  cleave  fast. 

Thy  baobabs  will  he  uproot,  to  serve  his  needs; 

To  thy  subjected  floods  will  he  appoint  a  bed; 

And  thy  most  puissant  sons  and  daughters  will  in  dread 
Flee  from  this  worm  of  earth,  more  weakly  than  thy  weeds. 


LECONTE  DE  LISLE  157 

Surelier  than  lightning-bolts,  a-wandering  in  thy  tracks. 
His  torch  shall  kindle  plain  and  valley,  hill  and  heat; 
Yea,  thou  shalt  in  the  wind  evanish  of  his  breath 

And  his  w^ork  shall  upon  thy  sacred  ashes  wax. 

No  more  sonorous  sounds  amid  th'  abysmal  halls ; 

Laughters  and  noises  vile,  cries  of  despair  and  crime; 

No  aisles  of  leafage  more,  with  shadow-deeps  sublime; 
Only  a  black  ant-swarm  'twixt  black  and  hideous  walls. 

But  thou,  without  regret,  mayst  slumber  out  thy  term 
Within  that  pregnant  night,  where  all  must  redescend : 
Thine  ashes  tears  and  blood  shall  water  and  at  end 

Thou  from  our  ashes  shalt  again,  O  forest,  germ ! 

(John  Payne.) 

A  Last  Memory 

LIVED  have  I  and  am  dead.    Inert  and  open-eyed, 
In   th'   incommensurable   abyss,    unseeing  aught, 
Slow  as  an  agony,  heavy  as  a  crowd,  I  glide. 

Adown  a  tunnel  dark,  pale  and  devoid  of  thought, 

Hour  by  hour,  day  by  day,  year  by  year,  I  descend. 
Athwart  th'  Immutable,  the  Dumb,  the  Black,  the  Nought. 

I  dream  and  feel  no  more.     Th'  approof  is  at  an  end. 

What,  then,  was  life  ?    And  was  I  young  or  old  ?    Joy,  woe, 
Sun,  love,  hope,   fear!    Nought,  nought!    Hence,  flesh   for- 
saken, wend ! 

The  void  is  in  thine  eyes :  sink  lower  and  more  low. 

Oblivions  thick  and  yet  more  thick  about  thee  cling. 
Can't  be  I  dream?    No,  no,  I'm  dead.    'Tis  better  so. 

And  yet  this  ghost,  this  cry,  this  gruesome  suffering? 

To  me  it  must  have  happened  in  far  antiquity. 
O  night  of  nothingness,  take  me!    Sure  is  the  thing; 

Some  one  my  heart  devoured  hath :  I  remember  me. 

(John  Payne.) 


158  LECONTE  DE  LISLE 

Moonrise 

CALM  is  the   sea-scape,  gray,  immense; 
The  eye  in  vain  would  it  survey; 
Nothing   commences,   nothing   ends; 
It  neither  night  is,  neither  day. 

No  surge  with  foamy  fringes  breaks; 

No  stars  there  be  in  heaven's  height; 
Nought  is  extinguished,  nought  awakes 

And  space  is  neither  dark  nor  light. 

Ospreys,  gulls,  petrels,  all  are  fled: 
Upon  these  tranquil  solitudes, 

Wherein  no  porpoise  shows  his  head, 
A  vague  deep  weariness  there  broods. 

No  sound  of  voice,  no  breath  that  blows: 
The  keel,  the  lazy  swell  that  rides, 

Forth  of  the  water  dull  scarce  shows 
The  copper  of  its  shining  sides; 

And  where  the  sea  the  hencoops  laves, 
The  men  on  watch,  with  dreaming  eyes, 

Gaze,    without    seeing,   on   the   waves, 
That  rise  and  fall  and   fall  and  rise. 

But,  in  the  East,  a  milky  sheen. 
As  of  a  shower  of  ashes  fine, 

Upon  th'  horizon  shed,  is  seen, 
Emerging  from  the  far  sky-line. 

It  floats  in  shimmering  silver  skeins, 
Dispersed  and  spread,  alow,  aloft; 

Eddies,  falls  back  again  and  rains 
Its  snist  diaphanous  and  soft. 


LECONTE  DE  LISLE  159 


A  pale  fire  shines,  unfurled  on  high; 

The  quivering  ocean  opens  wide, 
And  in  the  pearly-colored  sky, 

The  moon  mounts  slowly  o'er  the  tide. 

(John  Payne.) 


CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE  (1821-1867) 
The  Balcony 

MOTHER  of  memories,  mistress  of  mistresses, 
O  thou,  my  pleasure,  thou,  all  my  desire, 
Thou  shalt  recall  the  beauty  of  caresses. 

The  charm  of  evenings,  by  the  gentle  fire, 
Mother  of  memories,  mistress  of   mistresses. 

The  eves  illumined  by  the  burning  coal, 
The  balcony  where  veiled  rose-vapor  clings — 

How  soft  your  breast  was  then,  how  sweet  your  soul! 
Ah,  and  we  said  imperishable  things. 

Those  eves  illumined  by  the  burning  coal. 

Lovely  the  suns  were  in  those  twilights  warm, 
A  space  profound,  and  strong  life's  pulsing  flood. 

In  bending  o'er  you,  queen  of  every  charm, 

I  thought  I  breathed  the  perfume  in  your  blood. 

The  suns  were  beauteous  in  those  twilights  warm. 

The  film  of  night  flowed  round  and  over  us. 
And  my  eyes  in  the  dark  did  your  eyes  meet; 

I   drank  your  breath,   ah !    sweet   and   poisonous, 
And  in  my  hands  fraternal  slept  your  feet — 

Night,  like  a  film,  flowed  round  and  over  us. 

I  can  recall  those  happy  days  forgot. 
And  see,  with  head  bowed  on  your  knees,  my  past. 


160  CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE 

Your  languid  beauties  now  would  move  me  not 

Did  not  your  gentle  heart  and  body  cast 
The  old  spell  of  those  happy  days  forgot. 

Can  vows  and  perfumes,  kisses  infinite, 
Be  reborn  from  the  gulf  we  cannot  sound; 

As  rise  to  heaven  suns  once  again  made  bright 
After  being  plunged  in  deep  seas  and  profound? 

Ah,  vows  and  perfumes,  kisses  infinite ! 

(F.  P.  Sturm.) 


Spleen 

I'M  like  some  king  in  whose  corrupted  veins 
Flows  aged  blood;  who  rules  a  land  of  rains; 
Who,  young  in  years,  is  old  in  all  distress; 
Who  flees  good  counsel  to  find  weariness 
Among  his  dogs  and  playthings,  who  is  stirred 
Neither  by  hunting-hound  nor  hunting-bird; 
Whose  weary  face  emotion  moves  no  more 
E'en  when  his  people  die  before  his  door. 
His  favorite  Jester's  most  fantastic  wile 
Upon  that  sick,  cruel  face  can  raise  no  smile; 
The  courtly  dames,  to  whom  all  kings  are  good. 
Can  lighten  this  young  skeleton's  dull  mood 
No  more  with  shameless  toilets.     In  his  gloom 
Even  his  lilied  bed  becomes  a  tomb. 
The  sage  who  takes  his  gold  essays  in  vain 
To  purge  away  the  old  corrupted  strain, 
His  baths  of  blood,  that  in  the  days  of  old 
The  Romans  used  when  their  hot  blood  grew  cold, 
Will  never  warm  this   dead  man's  bloodless  pains, 
For  green  Lethean  water  fills  his  veins. 

(F.  P.  Sturm.) 


CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE  l6l 

A  Madrigal  of  Sorrow 

WHAT  do  I  care  though  you  be  wise? 
Be  sad,  be  beautiful;  your  tears 
But  add  one  more  charm  to  your  eyes, 
As  streams  to  valleys  where  they  rise; 
And  fairer  every  flower  appears 

After  the  storm.     I  love  you  most 
When  joy  has  fled  your  brow  downcast; 

When  your  heart  is  in  horror  lost, 

And  o'er  your  present  like  a  ghost 
Floats  the  dark  shadow  of  the  past. 

I  love  you  when  the  teardrop  flows, 

Hotter  than  blood,  from  your  large  eye; 
When  I  would  hush  you  to  repose 
Your  heavy  pain  breaks  forth  and  grows 
Into  a  loud  and  tortured  cry. 

And  then,  voluptuousness  divine! 

Delicious  ritual  and  profound! 
I  drink  in  every  sob  like  wine. 
And  dream  that  in  your  deep  heart  shine 

The  pearls  wherein  your  eyes  were  drowned. 

I  know  your  heart,  which  overflows 

With  outworn  loves  long  cast  aside, 
Still  like  a  furnace  flames  and  glows, 
And  you  within  your  breast  enclose 

A  damned  soul's  unbending  pride; 

But  till  your  dreams  v/ithout  release 

Reflect  the  leaping  flames  of  hell; 
Till  in  a  nightmare  without  cease 
You  dream  of  poison  to  bring  peace, 

And  love  cold  steel  and  powder  well; 


162  CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE 

And  tremble  at  each  opened  door, 

And  feel  for  every  man  distrust, 
And  shudder  at  the  striking  hour — 
Till  then  you  have  not  felt  the  power 

Of  Irresistible  Disgust. 

My  queen,  my  slave,  whose  love  is  fear. 

When  you  awaken  shuddering, 
Until  that  awful  hour  be  here. 
You  cannot  say  at  midnight  drear: 

"I  am  your  equal,  O  my  King." 

(F.  P.  Sturm.) 

Robed  in  a  Silken  Robe 

ROBED  in  a  silken  robe  that  shines  and  shakes, 
She  seems  to  dance  whene'er  she  treads  the  sod, 
Like  the  long  serpent  that  a  fakir  makes 
Dance  to  the  waving  cadence  of  a  rod. 

As  the  sad  sand  upon  the  desert's  verge, 

Insensible  to  mortal  grief  and  strife ; 
As  the  long  weeds  that  float  among  the  surge, 

She  folds  indifference  round  her  budding  life. 

Her  eyes  are  carved  of  minerals  pure  and  cold. 
And  in  her  strange  symbolic  nature  where 
An  angel  mingles  with  the  sphinx  of  old, 
Where  all  is  gold  and  steel  and  light  and  air, 
Forever,  like  a  star,  unafraid 
Shines  the  cold  hauteur  of  the  sterile  maid. 

(F.  P.  Sturm.) 

The  Little  Old  Women 
I 

DEEP  in  the  tortuous  folds  of  ancient  towns. 
Where  all,  even  horror,  to  enchantment  turns, 
I  watch,  obedient  to  my  fatal  mood. 


CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE  163 

For  the  decrepit,  strange  and  charming  beings, 
The  dislocated  monsters  that  of  old 
Were  lovely  women-Lais  or  Eponine ! 
Hunchbacked   and   broken,   crooked   though   they  be, 
Let  us  still  love  them,  for  they  still  have  souls. 
They  creep  along  v^rrapped  in  their  chilly  rags, 
Beneath  the  whipping  of  the  wicked  wind. 
They  tremble  when  an  omnibus  rolls  by. 
And  at  their  sides,  a  relic  of  the  past, 
A  little  flower-embroidered   satchel  hangs. 
They  trot  about,  most  like  to  marionettes; 
They  drag  themselves,  as  does  a  wounded  beast; 
Or  dance  unwillingly  as  a  clapping  bell 
Where  hangs  and  swings  a  demon  without  pity. 
Though  they  be  broken  they  have  piercing  eyes. 
That  shine  like  pools  where  water  sleeps  at  night; 
The  astonished  and  divine  eyes  of  a  child 
Who  laughs  at  all  that  glitters  in  the  world. 
Have  you  not  seen  that  most  old  women's  shrouds 
Are  little  like  the  shroud  of  a  dead  child? 
Wise  Death,  in  token  of  his  happy  whim. 
Wraps  old  and  young  in  one  enfolding  sheet. 
And  when  I  see  a  phantom,  frail  and  wan. 
Traverse  the  swarming  picture  that  is  Paris, 
It  ever  seems  as  though  the  delicate  thing 
Trod  with  soft  steps  toward  a  cradle  new. 
And  then  I  wonder,  seeing  the  twisted  form. 
How  many  times  must  workmen  change  the  shape 
Of  boxes  where  at  length  such  limbs  are  laid? 
These  eyes  are  wells  brimmed  with  a  million  tears; 
Crucibles  where  the  cooling  metal  pales — 
Mysterious  eyes  that  are  strong  charms  to  him 
Whose  life-long  nurse  has  been  austere  Disaster. 


II 


The  love-sick  vestal  of  the  old  "Fracati"; 
Priestess  of  Thalia,  alas !  whose  name 
Only  the  prompter  knows  and  he  is  dead; 


164  CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE 

Bygone  celebrities  that  in  bygone  days 
The   Tivoli   o'ershadowed   in  their  bloom; 
All  charm  me;  yet  among  these  beings  frail 
Three,  turning  pain  to  honey-sweetness,  said 
To  the  Devotion  that  had  lent  wings : 
"Lift  me,  O  powerful  Hippogriffe,  to  the  skies"- 
One  by  her  country  to  despair  was  driven; 
One  by  her  husband  overwhelmed  with  grief; 
One  wounded  by  her  child,  Madonna-like; 
Each  could  have  made  a  river  with  her  tears. 


Ill 


Oft  have  I  followed  one  of  these  old  women. 
One  among  others,  when  the  falling  sun 
Reddened  the  heavens  with  a  crimson  wound — 
Pensive,  apart,  she  rested  on  a  bench 
To  hear  the  brazen  music  of  the  band, 
Played  by  the  soldiers  in  the  public  park 
To  pour  some  courage  into  citizens'  hearts. 
On  golden  eves  when  all  the  world  revives. 
Proud  and  erect  she  drank  the  music  in, 
The  lively  and  the  warlike  call  to  arms; 
Her  eyes  blinked  like  an  ancient  eagle's  eyes; 
Her  forehead  seemed  to  await  the  laurel  crown! 


IV 


Thus  you  do  wander,  uncomplaining  Stoics, 

Through  all  the  chaos  of  the  living  town : 

Mothers  with  bleeding  hearts,  saints,  courtesans, 

Whose  names  of  yore  were  on  the  lips  of  all; 

Who  were  all  glory  and  all  grace,  and  now 

None  know  you;  and  the  brutish  drunkard  stops, 

Insulting  you  with  his  derisive  love; 

And  cowardly  urchins  call  behind  your  back. 

Ashamed  of  living,  withered  shadows  all. 

With  fear-bowed  backs  you  creep  beside  the  walls, 


CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE  165 

And  salute  you,  destined  to  loneliness! 

Refuse  of  Time  ripe  for  Eternity! 

But  I,  who  watch  you  tenderly  afar, 

With  unquiet  eyes  on  your  uncertain  steps, 

As  though  I  were  your  father,  I — O  wonder! — 

Unknown  to  you  taste  secret,  hidden  joy. 

I  see  your  maiden  passions  bud  and  bloom, 

Somber  or  luminous,  and  your  lost  days 

Unroll  before  me  while  my  heart  enjoys 

All  your  old  vices,  and  my  soul  expands 

To  all  virtues  that  have  once  been  yours. 

Ruined!  and  my  sisters!    O  congenerate  hearts, 

Octogenarian  Eves  o'er  whom  is  stretched 

God's  awful  claw,  where  will  you  be  to-morrow? 

(F.  P.  Sturm.) 

An  Allegory 

HERE  is  a  woman,  richly  and  fair, 
Who  in  her  wine  dips  her  long,  heavy  hair; 
Love's  claws,  and  that  sharp  poison  which  is  sin, 
Are  dulled  against  the  granite  of  her  skin. 
Death  she  defies.  Debauch  she  smiles  upon. 
For   their   sharp    scythe-like   talons   every   one 
Pass  by  her  in  their  all-destructive  play; 
Leaving  her  beauty  till  a  later  day. 
Goddess  she  walks ;  sultana  in  her  leisure ; 
She  has  Mohammed's  faith  that  heaven  is  pleasure. 
And  bids  all  men  forget  the  world's  alarms 
Upon  her  breast,  between  her  open  arms. 
She  knows,  and  she  believes,  this  sterile  maid, 
Without  whom  the  world's  onward  dream  would  fade. 
That  bodily  beauty  is  the  supreme  gift 
Which  may  from  every  sin  the  terror  lift. 
Hell  she  ignores,  and  Purgatory  defies ; 
And  when  black  Night  shall  roll  before  her  eyes. 
She  will  look  straight  in  Death's  grim  face  forlorn, 
Without  remorse  or  hate — as  one  new-born. 

(F.  P.  Sturm.) 


166  CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE 

Beauty 

I   AM  as  lovely  as  a  dream  in  stone, 
And  this  my  heart  where  each  finds  death  in  turn, 
Inspires  the  poet  with  a  love  as  lone 
As  clay  eternal  and  as  taciturn. 

Swan-white  of  heart,  a  sphinx  no  mortal  knows. 
My  throne  is  in  the  heaven's  azure  deep; 
I  hate  all  movements  that  disturb  my  pose, 
I  smile  not  ever,  neither  do  I  weep. 

Before  my  monumental  attitudes. 

That  breathe  a  soul  into  the  plastic  arts, 

My  poets  pray  in  austere  studious  moods. 

For  I,  to  fold  enchantment  round  their  hearts. 
Have  pools  of  light  where  beauty  flames  and  dies, 
The  placid  mirrors  of  my  luminous  eyes. 

(F.  P.  Sturm.) 

The  Sadness  of  the  Moon 

THE  moon  more  indolently  dreams  to-night 
Than  a  fair  woman  on  her  couch  at  rest, 
Caressing,  with  a  hand  distraught  and  light, 
Before  she  sleeps,  the  contour  of  her  breast. 

Upon  her  silken  avalanche  of  down. 
Dying,  she  breathes  a  long  and  swooning  sigh; 
And  watches  the  white  visions  past  her  flown. 
Which  rise  like  blossoms  to  the  azure  sky. 

And  when,  at  times,  wrapped  in  her  languor  deep, 
Earthward  she  lets  a  furtive  tear-drop  flow, 
Some  pious  poet,  enemy  of  sleep, 


CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE  167 

Takes  in  her  hollow  hand  the  tear  of  snow 

Whence  gleams  of  iris  of  opal  start, 

And  hides  it  from  the  Sun,  deep  in  his  heart. 

(F.  P.  Sturm.) 


The  Seven  Old  Men 

O   SWARMING  city,  city  full  of  dreams, 
Where  in  full  day  the  specter  walks  and  speaks; 
Mighty  colossus,  in  your  narrow  veins 
My  story  flows  as  flows  the  rising  sap. 

One  morn,  disputing  with  my  tired  soul. 

And  like  a  hero  stiffening  all  my  nerves, 

I  trod  a  suburb  shaken  by  the  jar 

Of  rolling  wheels,  where  the  fog  magnified 

The  houses  either  side  of  that  sad  street, 

So  they  seemed  like  two  wharves  the  ebbing  flood 

Leaves  desolate  by  the  river-side.     A  mist, 

Unclean  and  yellow,  inundated  space — 

A  scene  that  would  have  pleased  an  actor's  soul. 

Then  suddenly  an  aged  man,  whose  rags 

Were  yellow  as  the  rainy  sky,  whose  looks 

Should  have  brought  alms  in  floods  upon  his  head, 

Without  the  misery  gleaming  in  his  eyes, 

Appeared  before  me;  and  his  pupils  seemed 

To  have  been  washed  with  gall ;  the  bitter  frost 

Sharpened  his  glance ;  and  from  his  chin  a  beard 

Sword-stiff    and    ragged,    Judas-like    stuck    forth. 

He  was  not  bent  but  broken:  his  backbone 

Made  a  so  true  right  angle  with  his  legs, 

That,  as  he  walked,  the  tapping  stick  which  gave 

The  finish  to  the  picture,  made  him  seem 

Like  some  infirm  and  stumbling  quadruped 

Or  a  three-legged  Jew.    Through  snow  and  mud 

He  walked  with  troubled  and  uncertain  gait, 

As  though  his  sabots  trod  upon  the  dead, 

Indifferent  and  hostile  to  the  world. 


168  CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE 

His  double  followed  him :    Tatters  and  stick 
And  back  and  eye  and  beard,  all  were  the  same; 
Out  of  the  same  Hell,  indistinguishable, 
These  centenarian   twins,   these   specters  odd, 
Trod  the  same  pace  toward  some  end  unknown. 
To  what  fell  complot  was  I  then  exposed? 
Humiliated   by   what   evil   chance? 
For  as  the  minutes  one  by  one  went  by 
Seven  times  I  saw  this  sinister  old  man 
Repeat  his  image  there  before  my  eyes! 

Let  him  who  smiles  at  my  inquietude, 

Who  never  trembled  at  a  fear  like  mine, 

Know  that  in  their  decrepitude's   despite 

These  seven  old  hideous  monsters  had  the  mien 

Of  being  immortal. 

Then,  I  thought,  must  I, 
Undying,  contemplate  the  awful  eight; 
Inexorable,   fatal,  and  ironic  double ; 
Disgusting  Phoenix,   father  of  himself 
And  his  own   son?     In  terror  then  I  turned 
My  back  upon  the  infernal  band,  and  fled 
To  my  own  place,  and  closed  my  door ;  distraught 
And  like  a  drunkard  who  sees  all  things  twice, 
With  feverish  troubled  spirit,  chilly  and  sick. 
Wounded  by  mystery  and  absurdity ! 

In  vain  my  reason  tried  to  cross  the  bar, 
The  whirling  storm  but  drove  her  back  again; 
And  my  soul  tossed,  and  tossed,  an  outworn  wreck, 
Mastless,  upon  a  monstrous,  shoreless  sea. 

(F.  P.  Sturm.) 


B 


Meditation 

E  still,  my  sorrow,  and  be  strong  to  bear; 

The  evening  thou  didst  pray  for,  now  comes  down, 
A  veil  of  dusky  air  enfolds  the  town, 


CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE  169 

Bringing  soft  peace  to  some,  to  others  care. 

Now,  while  the  wretched  throngs  of  soulless  clay, 
Beneath  the  pitiless  sting  of  pleasure's  whip 
Gather  remorse  in  slavish  fellowship, 

Sorrow  give  me  thy  hand,  and  come  away. 

Far  from  the  noise.    See  the  sad  years  deceased 
Lean  from  the  sky  in  garb  of  bygone  times, 
Regret  that  smiles  up   from  the  river's  deep, 

The  sun  that  sinks  beneath  the  bridge  to  sleep. 
And  hear  the  footsteps  of  the  night  that  climbs 
Like  a  long  shroud,  trailing  across  the  East. 

(Arthur  Reed  Ropes.) 


The  Rebel 

AN  Angel  swoops,  like  eagle  on  his  prey, 
Grips  by  the  hair  the  unbelieving  wight. 
And  furious  cries,  "O   scorner  of  the  right, 
'Tis  I,  thine  angel  good,  who  speaks.     Obey ! 

Know  thou  shalt  love  without  the  least  distaste 
The  poor,  the  base,  the  crooked  and  the  dull; 
So  shall  the  pageant  of  thy  Lord  be  graced 
With  banners  by  thy  love  made  beautiful. 

This  is  God's  love.     See  that  thy  soul  be  fired 
With  its  pure  flame,  or  e'er  thy  heart  grow  tired, 
And  thou  shalt  know  the  bliss  that  lasts  for  aye." 

Ah !  with  what  ruthless  love  that  Angel  grand 
Tortures  and  racks  the  wretch  with  giant  hand ! 
But  still  he  answers  "Never,  till  I  die." 

(Cosmo  Monkhouse.) 


Litany  to  Satan 

O  GRANDEST   of   the   Angels,   and  most  wise, 
O  fallen  God,  fate-driven  from  the  skies, 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 


170  CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE 

O  first  of  exiles  who  endurest  wrong, 

Yet  growest,  in  thy  hatred,  still  more  strong, 

Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

O  subterranean  King,  omniscient, 
Healer  of  man's  immortal  discontent, 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

To  lepers  and  to  outcasts  thou  dost  show 
That  passion  is  the  paradise  below. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Thou  by  thy  mistress  Death  hast  given  to  man 
Hope,   the   imperishable   courtesan. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Thou  givest  to  the  Guilty  their  calm  mien 
Which  damns  the  crowd  around  the  guillotine 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Thou  knowest  the  corners  of  the  jealous  Earth 
Where    God   has   hidden   jewels   of    great   worth. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Thou  dost  discover  by  mysterious  signs 
Where  sleep  the  buried  people  of  the  mines. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Thou  stretchest  forth  a  saving  hand  to  keep 
Such  men  as  roam  upon  the  roofs  in  sleep. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Thy  power  can  make  the  halting  Drunkard's  feet 
Avoid  the  peril  of  the  surging  street. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Thou,  to  console  our  helplessness,  didst  plot 
The  cunning  use  of  powder  and  of  shot. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 


CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE  171 

Thy  awful  name  is  written  as  with  pitch 
On  the  unrelenting  foreheads  of  the  rich. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

In  strange  and  hidden  places  thou  dost  move 
Where  women  cry   for  torture  in  their  love. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Father  of  those  whom  God's  tempestuous  ire 
Has  flung  from  Paradise  with  sword  and  fire, 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Prayer 

Satan,  to  thee  be  praise  upon  the  Height 
Where   thou  wast  king  of   old,  and   in  the  night 
Of  Hell,  where  thou  dost  dream  on  silently. 
Grant  that  one  day  beneath   the   Knowledge-tree, 
When   it  shoots    forth   to   grace   thy   royal   brow. 
My  soul  may  sit,  that  cries  upon  thee  now. 

(James  Elroy  Flecker.) 

Don  Juan  in  Hell 

THE   night   Don   Juan   came   to  pay  his   fees 
To   Charon,  by  the  caverned   water's   shore, 
A  beggar,  proud-eyed  as  Antisthenes, 

Stretched  out  his  knotted  fingers  on  the  oar. 

Mournful,  with  drooping  breasts  and  robes  unsewn 
The  shapes  of  women  swayed  in  ebon  skies. 

Trailing  behind  him  with  a  restless  moan 
Like  cattle  herded  for  a  sacrifice. 

Here,  grinning  for  his  wage,  stood  Sganarelle, 
And  here  Don  Luis  pointed,  bent  and  dim, 

To  show  the  dead  who  lined  the  holes  of  hell, 
This  was  that  impious  son  who  mocked  at  him. 


172  CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE 

The  hollow-eyed,  the  chaste   Elvira  came, 
Trembling  and  veiled,  to  view  her  traitor  spouse. 

Was  it  one  last  bright  smile  she  thought  to  claim, 
Such  as  made  sweet  the  morning  of  his  vows? 

A  great  stone  man  rose  like  a  tower  on  board. 
Stood  at  the  helm  and  cleft  the  flood  profound : 

But  the  calm  hero,  leaning  on  his  sword. 

Gazed  back,  and  would  not  offer  one  look  round. 

{James  Elroy  Flecker.) 


Epilogue 

WITH  heart  at  rest  I  climbed  the  citadel's 
Steep  height,  and  saw  the  city  as  from  a  tower. 
Hospital,  brothel,  prison,  and  such  hells, 

Where  evil  comes  up  softly  like  a  flower. 
Thou  knowest,  O  Satan,  patron  of  my  pain. 
Not  for  vain  tears  I  went  up  at  that  hour; 

But,  like  an  old  sad  faithful  lecher,  fain 
To  drink  delight  of  that  enormous  trull 
Whose  hellish  beauty  makes  fne  young  again. 

Whether   thou   sleep,   with  heavy  vapors   full, 
Sodden  with   day,  or,  new  appareled,  stand 
In  gold-laced  veils  of  evening  beautiful, 

I  love  thee,  infamous  city!    Harlots  and 
Hunted  have  pleasures  of  their  own  to  give, 
The  vulgar  herd   can  never  understand. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


HENRI  MURGER  17« 

HENRI  MURGER  (1822-1861) 
Spring  in  the  Students'  Quarter 

WINTER  Is  passing,  and  the  bells 
For  ever  with  their   silver  lay 
Murmur  a  melody  that  tells 

Of  April  and  of  Easter  day. 
High  in  sweet  air  the  light  vane  sets, 

The  weathercocks  all  southward  twirl; 
A  sou  will  buy  her  violets 
And  make  Nini  a  happy  girl. 

The  winter  to  the  poor  was  sore, 

Counting  the  weary  winter  days. 
Watching  his  little  firewood  store, 

The  bitter  snowflakes   fall  always ; 
And  now  his  last  log  dimly  gleamed. 

Lighting  the  room  with  feeble  glare, 
Half  cinder  and  half   smoke  it  seemed 

That  the  wind  wafted  into  air. 

Pilgrims  from  ocean  and  far  isles 

See  where  the  east  is  reddening, 
The  flocks  that  fly  a  thousand  miles 

From    sunsetting   to    sunsetting; 
Look  up,  look  out,  behold  the  swallows. 

The  throats  that  twitter,  the  wings  that  beat; 
And  on  their  song  the  summer  follows, 

And  in  the  summer  life  is  sweet. 


With  the  green  tender  buds  that  know 
The  shoot  and  sap  of  lusty  spring 

My   neighbor   of   a   year   ago 
Her  casement,  see,  is  opening; 


174  HENRI  MURGER 

Through   all   the  bitter   months  that  were, 
Forth  from  her  nest  she  dared  not  flee, 

She  was  a  study  for  Boucher, 
She  now  may  sit  to  Gavarni. 


(Andrew  Lang.) 


Old  Loves 


LOUISE,  have  you  forgotten  yet 
The  corner  of  the  flowery  land, 
The  ancient  garden  where  we   met, 

My  hand  that  trembled  in  your  hand? 
Our  lips  found  words  scarce  sweet  enough, 

As  low  beneath  the  willow  trees 

We  sat;  have  you  forgotten,  love? 

Do  you  remember,  love  Louise? 

Marie,   have  you   forgotten  yet 

The  loving  barter  that  we  made? 
The  rings  we  changed,  the  suns  that  set, 

The  woods   fulfilled   with  sun  and   shade? 
The  fountains  that  were  musical 

By  many  an  ancient  trysting  tree — 
Marie,   have   you   forgotten   all? 

Do  you  remember,  love  Marie? 

Christine,    do    you    remember    yet 

Your  room  with  scents  and  roses  gay? 
My  garret — near  the  sky  'twas  set — 

The  April  hours,  the  nights  of  May? 
The  clear  calm  nights — the  stars  above 

That  whispered  they  were   fairest  seen 
Through  no  cloud-veil?     Remember,  love. 

Do   you   remember,   love   Christine? 

Louise  is  dead,  and,  well-a-day. 

Marie  a  sadder  path  has  ta'en; 
And  pale  Christine  has  passed  away 

In  southern  suns  to  bloom  again. 


HENRI  MURGER  175 


Alas,  for  one  and  all  of  us — 
Marie,  Louise,   Christine  forget; 

Our    bower   of    love    is   ruinous, 
And  I  alone  remember  yet. 


{Andrew  Lang,) 


Musette 


YESTERDAY,  watching  the  swallows'  flight 
That  bring  the  spring  and  the  season  fair, 
A  moment  I  sought  of  the  beauty  bright 

Who  loved  me,  when  she  had  time  to  spare; 
And   dreamily,   dreamily  all  the  day, 

I  mused  on  the  calendar  of  the  year, 
The  year  so  near  and  so  far  away. 
When  you  were  lief,  and  when  I  was  dear. 

Your  memory  has  not  had  time  to  pass; 

My  youth  has  days  of  its  lifetime  yet; 
If  you  only  knocked  at  the  door,  alas, 

My  heart  would  open  the  door.  Musette. 
Still  at  your  name  must  m.y  sad  heart  beat; 

Ah  Muse,  ah  maiden  of   faithlessness. 
Return  for  a  moment,  and  deign  to  eat 

The  bread  that  pleasure  was  wont  to  bless. 

The  tables  and  curtains,  the  chairs  and  all. 

Friends  of  our  pleasure,  that  looked  on  our  pain, 
Are  glad  with  the  gladness  of  festival. 

Hoping  to  see  you  at  home  again; 
Come,  let  the  days  of  their  mourning  pass. 

The  silent  friends  that  are  sad  for  you  yet; 
The  little  sofa,  the  great  wine  glass — 

For  know  you  have  often  my  share,  Musette. 

Come,  you  shall  wear  the  raiment  white 
You  wore  of  old,  when  the  world  was  gay. 

We  will  wander  in  the  woods  of  the  heart's  delight 
The  whole  of  the  Sunday  holiday. 


176  HENRI  MURGER 

Come,  we  will  sit  by  the  wayside  inn, 
Come,  and  your  song  will  again  force  to  fly. 

Dipping  its  wing  in  the  clear  and  thin 
Wine,  as  of  old,  ere  it  scale  the  sky. 

Musette,  who  had  scarcely  forgotten  withal 

One  beautiful  dawn  of  the  new  year's  best. 
Returned  at  the  end  of  the  carnival, 

A  flown  bird,  to  a  forsaken  nest. 
Ah  faithless  and  fair.     I  embrace  her  yet, 

With  no  heart-beat,  and  with  never  a  sigh; 
And  Musette,  no  longer  the  old  Musette, 

Declares  that  I  am  no  longer  I. 

Farewell,  my  dear  that  was  once  so  dear. 

Dead  with  the  death  of  our  latest  love; 
Our  youth  is  laid  in  its  sepulcher. 

The  calendar  stands  for  a  stone  above. 
'Tis  only  in  searching  the  dust  of  the  days. 

The  ashes  of  all  old  memories. 
That  we  find  the  key  of  the  woodland  ways 

That  leads  to  the  place  of  our  paradise. 

(Andrew  Lang.) 

THEODORE  DE  BANVILLE  (1823-1891) 
The  Nightingale 

SEE,  on  the   violet-tops, 
Pearls  of  the  summer  eves, 
Glitter  the  dew's  first  drops: 
Hark,  in  the  thickest  leaves. 
Yet  with  her  flight  a-swale, 
Carols  the  nightingale. 

The  moon  rides  high  and  free: 
The  sea,  afar  that  throbs. 
The  mild  melodious  sea. 


THEODORE  DE  BANVILLE  177 

Heaves  long  and  lingering  sobs 
Of  passion  and  affright, 
As  I  do  in  thy  sight. 

As  thou  art,  half-arrayed, 
Bide  at  the  window-sill, 
My  tender,   artless   maid. 
Dost    thou   remember   still 
What  thou  to  me  didst  say 
In  Paradise  one  day? 

Nay,  speak  not !    At  thy  knee 
Thus  seated,  let  me  view 
Thy  lips  that  sigh  for  me, 
Thy  black-browed  eyes  of  blue. 
'Twas  yesterday.     Thy  hair 
Fain  would  I  loose,  my  fair. 

O  fleece,  O  glad  array 
Of  tresses,  that  I  love ! 
Thou  art  not  faithless !    Nay, 
My  golden-plumaged  dove. 
My  angel   found  again, 
'Twas  but  a  dream  insane. 

(John  Payne.) 


A  Love  Son^ 

WHO,  ere  daylight  breaks  above, 
Since   I   faint  with   love  and  languish. 
Will  to  him,  my  soul's  dear  love, 
Bear  the  secret  of  my  anguish? 

How,  my  heart,  when  all  is  dark. 
Shall   my   secret   send    him    warning? — 

H  I  breathe  it  to  the  lark 

She  will  tell  it  to  the  morning. 


178  THEODORE  DE  BANVILLE 

Love,  that  in  my  breast  doth  burn, 

Thrills  me  with  what  pang  he  pleases: — 

If  the  wave  my  secret  learn 
She  will  tell  it  to  the  breezes. 

Fear  my  tremulous  lip  turns  pale, 

Sleepless  pain  my  lid  uncloses : — 
If  I  tell  the  nightingale 

She  will  tell  it  to  the  roses. 

How  shall  I  beseech  my  love 

Respite    from   the  woes   that   follow? — 

If  I  tell  the  turtle-dove 
She  will  tell  it  to  the  swallow. 

Like  a  reed  I  bend  and  dream, 

Cold  neglect  my  beauty  shadows: — 
If  I  tell  the  azure  stream 

She  will  tell  it  to  the  meadows. 

You  that  see  my  soul's  despair, 

Wings  and  waves  and  winds  and  summer! — 

If  my  glass  the  secret  share 
She  will  tell  each  curious  comer. 

Yet,  because  I  faint  with  love, 

You  that  see  my  swooning  anguish — 
Fly  and  find,  abroad,  above. 

Him  for  whom  my  soul  doth  languish. 

(W.   J.   Robertson.) 

FREDERIC  MISTRAL  (1830-1914) 

The  Mares  of  the  Camargue^ 
(From  the  Mireio) 

A  HUNDRED  mares,  all  white !  their  manes 
Like  mace-reed  of  the  marshy  plains 
Thick-tufted,  wavy,  free  o'  the  shears : 

>  From  "Poems  by  George  Meredith";  copyright,  1897,  189S,  by  George  Mere- 
dith.   Published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


FREDERIC  MISTRAL  179 

And  when  the  fiery  squadron  rears 
Bursting  at  speed,  each  mane  appears 
Even  as  the  white  scarf  of  a  fay 
Floating    upon    their    necks    along    the    heavens    away. 

O  race  of  humankind,  take  shame ! 

For  never  yet  a  hand  could  tame, 
Nor  bitter  spur  that  rips  the  flanks  subdue 

The  mares  of  the  Camargue.     I  have  known, 

By  treason  snared,  some  captives  shown ; 

Expatriate   from  their  native  Rhone, 
Led  off,  their  saline  pastures  far  from  view: 

And  on  a  day,  with  prompt  rebound. 

They  have  flung  their  riders  to  the  ground, 
And  at  a  single  gallop,  scouring  free. 

Wide  nostril'd  to  the  wind,  twice  ten 

Of  long  marsh-leagues  devour'd,  and  then, 

Back  to  the  Vacares  again. 
After  ten  years   of    slavery   just   to   breathe   salt  sea. 

For  of  this  savage  race  unbent 

The  ocean  is  the  element. 
Of  old  escaped  from  Neptune's  car,  full  sure 

Still  with  the  white  foam  fleck'd  are  they, 

And  when  the  sea  puffs  black  from  gray, 

And  ships  part  cables,  loudly  neigh 
The  stallions  of  Camargue,  all  joyful  in  the  roar; 

And  keen  as  a  whip  they  lash  and  crack 

Their  tails  that  drag  the  dust,  and  back 
Scratch  up  the  earth,  and  feel,  entering  their  flesh,  where  he, 

The  God,  drives  deep  his  trident  teeth. 

Who  in  one  horror,  above,  beneath. 

Bids  storm  and  watery  deluge  seethe. 
And  shatters  to  their  depths  the  abysses  of  the  sea. 

(George  Meredith.) 


180  FREDERIC  MISTRAL 

The  Cocooning 
(.From  the  Mireio) 

WHEN  the  crop  is  fair  in  the  olive-yard, 
And  the  earthen  jars  are  ready 
For  the  golden  oil  from  the  barrels  poured, 

And  the  big  cart  rocks   unsteady 
With  its  tower  of  gathered  sheaves,  and  strains 
And  groans  on   its   way  through  fields  and   lanes: 

When  brawny  and  bare  as  an  old  athlete 

Comes  Bacchus  the  dance  a-leading, 
And  the  laborers  all,  with  juice-dyed  feet, 

The  vintage  of  Crau  are  treading, 
And  the  good  wine  pours  from  the  brimful  presses. 

And  the  rudy  foam  in  the  vats  increases; 

When  under  the  leaves  of  the  Spanish  broom 

The  clear  silk-worms  are  holden. 
An  artist  each,  in  a  tiny  loom, 

Weaving  a  web  of  golden, — 
Fine,  frail  cells  out  of  sunlight  spun, 
Where  they  creep  and  sleep  by  the  million, — 

Glad  is  Provence  on  a  day  like  that, 

'Tis  the  time  of  jest  and  laughter: 
The  Ferigoulet  and  the  Baume  Muscat 

They  quaff,  and  they  sing  thereafter. 
And  lads  and  lasses,  their  toils   between. 
Dance  to  the  tinkling  tambourine. 

(Harriet  Waters  Preston.) 

The  Leaf-Picking 

SING,  magnarello,  merrily, 
As  the  green  leaves  you  gather! 
In  their  third  sleep  the  silk-worms  lie. 


FREDERIC  MISTRAL  181 


And  lovely  is  the  weather. 
Like  brown  bees  that  in  open  glades 

From  rosemary  gather  honey, 
The  mulberry-trees  swarm  full  of  maids, 

Glad  as  the  air  is  sunny ! 

Sing,  magnarello,  merrily, 

The  green  leaves  are  piling! 
Two  comely  children  sit  on  high, 

Amid   the   foliage,   smiling. 
Sing,  magnarello,  loud  and  oft : 

Your  merry  labor  hasten. 
The  guileless  pair  who  laugh  aloft 

Are  learning  love's  first  lesson. 

Sing,  magnarello,   merrily. 

As  the  green  leaves  you  gather! 
The  sun  of   May  is  riding  higher. 

And  ardent  is  the  weather. 

Sing,  magnarello,  heap  your  leaves. 

While  sunny  is  the  weather ! 
He  comes  to  aid  her  when  she  grieves: 

The  two  are  now  together. 

(Harriet  Waters  Preston.) 

SULLY  PRUDHOMME  (1839-) 

A  Supplication 

OH !  did  you  know  how  the  tears  apace 
Fall  by  a  lonely  heart,  alas ! 
I  think  that  before  my  dwelling  place 
Sometimes  you  did  pass. 

And  did  you  know  of  the  hopes  that  arise 
In  wearied  soul  from  a  pure  young  glance, 
May  be  to  my  window  you'd  lift  your  eyes 
As  if  by  chance. 


182  SULLY  PRUDHOMME 

And  if  of  the  comfort  you  only  knew 
A  heart  may  bring  to  a  heart  that  is  sore, 
You'd  rest  a  while,  as  a  sister  may  do, 
Beside  my  door. 

But  if  you  knew  of  the  love  that  enwraps 
My  soul  for  you,  and  holds  it  fast. 
Quite  simple  over  my  threshold,  perhaps, 
You'd  step  at  last. 

(I.  O.  L.) 

The  Ideal 
I 

THE  moon  is  large,  the  heaven  fair 
And  full  of  stars;  the  earth  is  spent; 
All  the  world's  soul  is  in  the  air: 
Of  one  great  star  magnificent. 

II 

I  dream  of  one  I  may  not  see 

And  yet  whose  light  must,  traveling,  gauge 

The  eternal  space  and  come  to  be 

The  glory  of  another  age. 

Ill 

When  at  last  it  shines  above, 
Fairest  and  farthest  star  in  space. 
Then  let  it  know  it  had  my  love. 
Oh!  latest  of  the  human  race! 

(Dorothy  Frances  Gzviney.) 

The  Shadow 

WE  walk:  our  shadow  follows  in  the  rear, 
Mimics  our  notions,  treads  where'er  we  tread, 
Looks  without  seeing,  listens  without  an  ear, 
Crawls  while  we  walk  with  proud  uplifted  head. 


SULLY  PRUDHOMME  18« 

Like  to  his  shadow,  man  himself  down  here, 

A  little  living  darkness,  a   frail  shred 

Of  form,  sees,  speaks,  but  with  no  knowledge  clear. 

Saying  to  Fate,  "By  thee  my  feet  are  led." 

Man  shadows  but  a  lower  angel  who, 
Fallen  from  high,  is  but  a  shadow  too; 
So  man  himself  an  image  is  of  God. 

And,  may  be,  in  some  place  by  us  untrod, 
Near  deepest  depths  of  nothingness  or  ill. 
Some  wraith  of  human  wraiths  grows,  darker  still. 

(Arthur  O'Shaughnessy.) 


Profanation 

BEAUTY,  that  mak'st  the  body  like  a  fane, 
What  gods  have  spurned  thee,  since  thou  fall'st  thus 
low, 
Lending  thyself  to  harlots  and  thy  glow 
To  deck  dead  hearts  that  cannot  live  again? 

Made  for  the  chaste  and  strong,  didst  thou  in  vain 
Seek  strength  and  purity,  round  such  to  throw 
Thy  glorious  garb  aright?  and  is  it  so 
Thou  robest  sin  and  hidest  falsehood's  stain? 

Fly  back  to  heaven;  profane  no  more  thy  worth. 
Nor  drag  down  love  and  genius  to  base  kneeling 
At  foot  of  courtezans  when  thee  they  seek. 

Quit  the  white  flock  of  women ;  and  henceforth 
Form  shall  be  molded  upon  truth,  revealing 
The  soul,  and  truth  upon  the  brow  shall  speak. 

{Arthur  O'Shaughnessy.) 


184  SULLY  PRUDHOMME 


The  Struggle 

NIGHTLY  tormented  by  returning  doubt, 
I  dare  the  sphinx  with  faith  and  unbelief ; 
And  through  lone  hours  when  no  sleep  brings  relief 
The  monster  rises  all  my  hopes  to  flout. 

In  a  still  agony,  the  light  blown  out, 
I  wrestle  with  the  unknown ;  nor  long  nor  brief 
The  night  appears,  my  narrow  couch  of  grief 
Grown  like  the  grave  with  Death  walled  round  about. 

Sometimes  my  mother,  coming  with  her  lamp, 

Seeing  my  brow  as  with  a  death-sweat  damp, 

Asks,  "Ah,  what  ails  thee,  Child?    Hast  thou  no  rest?" 

And  then  I  answer,  touched  by  her  look  of  yearning. 
Holding  my  beating  heart  and  forehead  burning, 
"Mother,  I  strove  with  God,  and  was  hard  prest." 

{Arthur  O'Shaughnessy.) 


The  appointment 

'rr^IS  late;  the  astronomer  in  his  lonely  height, 

X  Exploring  all  the  dark,  descries  afar 
Orbs  that  like  distant  isles  of  splendor  are, 
And  mornings  whitening  in  the  infinite. 

Like  winnowed  grain  the  worlds  go  by  in  flight, 
Or  swarm  in  glistening  spaces  nebular; 
He  summons  one  disheveled  wandering  star,- 
Return  ten  centuries  hence  on  such  a  night. 

The  star  will  come.     It  dare  not  by  one  hour 

Cheat  Science,  or  falsify  her  calculation ; 

Men  will  have  passed,  but  watchful  in  the  tower 


SULLY  PRUDHOMME  186 

Man  shall   remain  in  sleepless  contemplation; 
And  should  all  men  have  perished  there  in  turn, 
Truth  in  their  place  would  watch  that  star's  return. 

(Arthur  O'Shaughnessy.) 


I 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET  (1840-1897) 
Three  Days  of  Vintage 

MET  her  one  day  in  the  harvest  of  vines. 
_      Her  dainty  foot  peeped  neath  the  kirtle  that  swung, 
Unconfined  by  the  fillet  her  loose  tresses  hung : 
Eyes  pure  as  an  angel's,  lips  rosy  as  wine's. 

Pressed  close  to  the  arm  of  a  lover  she  clung, 
And  the  fields  of  Avignon  they  wandered  among 
In  the  harvest  of  vines. 
•  •  •  •  • 

I  met  her  one  day  in  the  harvest  of  vines. 
The  plains  lay  aslumber,  the  sky  shed  no  light; 
She  wandered  alone,  as  one  trembling  with  fright; 
And  her  look  was  like  wildfire  that  flickers  and  shines. 

I  thrill  with  the  vision  that  rose  on  my  sight 
When  I  saw  thee,  dear  phantom,  so  frail  and  so  white, 
In  the  harvest  of  vines. 
.  .  •  •  • 

I  met  her  one  day  in  the  harvest  of  vines. 
And  sad  in  my  dreams  is  the  memory  thereof. 

.  •  •  •  • 

The  pall  was  of  velvet  like  plumes  of  a  dove; 
Thus  an  ebony  casket  the  pale  pearl  enshrines. 
And  the  nuns  of  Avignon  bent  weeping  above  .  .  . 

Too  heavily  clustered  the  grapes  .  .  .  and  so  Love 
Reaped  the  harvest  of  vines. 

(W.  J.  Robertson.) 


186  EMILE  ZOLA 

EMILE  ZOLA  (1840- 1902) 
My  Wishes 

MY  wish  would  be  .  .  .  where  uplands  gleam 
When  sunny  May  shines  on  the  meadow, 
A  little  hut  that  throws  its  shadow 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  a  stream. 

A  hidden  nest  among  the  myrtles, 
To  which  no  footpaths  wind  their  tracks; 
A  nest  that  all  companion  lacks 

Save  only  nests  of  snow-white  turtles. 

My  wish  would  be  .  .  .  where  vision  ends 
And  the  gray  rock  towers  up  to  Heaven, 
A  bosk  of  pines  whence  breathes  at  even 

A  song  that  with  the  zephyr  blends; 

Far-widening  thence,  a  chain  of  valleys. 
Where  sportive  rivers  wind  and  stray 
And,  wandering  with  capricious  play. 

Shine  white  across  the  green-leaved  alleys; 

Or  where  dusk  olive-trees  ihat  lean 
In  dreams  their  hoary  heads  discover. 
Or  wild  vines,  like  a  wanton  lover, 

Climbing  along  the  slopes  are  seen. 

My  wish  would  be  .  .  .  for  royal  palace, 
Reached  by  a  pathway  from  my  door, 
A  bower  with  roses  blossomed  o'er 

And  closed  in  like  a  wild-flower's  chalice: 

A  mossy  carpet  soft  and  sweet, 

With  lavender  and  thyme  made  gracious, 
A  dainty  lordship,  scarce  so  spacious 

As  garden  spanned  by  children's  feet. 


w 


EMILE  ZOLA  187 

My  wish  would  be  ...  in  that  lone  shelter, 
Filled  with  the  forms  my  fancy  weaves, 
To  watch,  beneath  the  clustering  leaves, 

My  dreams  around  me  float  and  welter. 

But  more  than  all  my  wish  would  be  .  .  . 

And  lacking  that  I  laugh  at  power  .  .  . 

A  queen,  to  share  the  crown,  with  dower 
Of  golden  tresses  floating  free ; 

A  queen  of  love  whose  voice  is  tender, 
Whose  pensive  brow  shades  liquid  eyes, 
Fresh  from  whose  tread  the  soft  flowers  rise. 

Because  her  foot  is  light  and  slender. 

(IV.  J.  Robertson.y 


CATULLE  MENDES  (1841-1909) 
The  Disciple 
ITH  hands  that  touched  his  toes  the  Bouddha  dreamed. 


Said  Poorna :    Like  the  winds  are  souls  redeemed, 
Free  as  north  winds  in  sky  no  clouds  bedim ; 
Therefore,  o'er  rocks  I'll  climb,  through  rivers  swim 
To  further  tribes  beneath  the  furthest  heaven; 
That  soul?  be  comforted  and  sins  forgiven, 
Master,  thy  helpful  creed  I'll  bear  abroad. 

— But  if  these  tribes,  answered  the  Son  of  God, 
Insult  thee,  child  beloved,  what  wilt  thou  say? 

— That  with  a  virtuous  soul  endowed  are  they. 
Since  they  have  blinded  not  these  lids  with  sand. 
Nor  raised,  to  smite  me,  either  stone  or  hand. 

— But  if  they  smite  thee,  then,  with  hand  or  stone? 


188  CATULLE  MENDES 

— These  folk,  I'll  say,  to  gentleness  are  prone. 
Because  their  hands,  thus  filled  with  stones  to  fling 
Against  me,  stave  nor  sword  are  brandishing. 

— But  if  their  steel  doth  reach  thee? 

— I  will  say, 
How  soft  their  blows,  that  wound  and  do  not  slay. 

—But  if  thou  die? 

— Happy  who  cease  to  live! 

— Go  forth,  said  Bouddha,  comfort  and  forgive. 

(IV.  I.  Robertson.) 

The  Mother 

WHEN  the  Lord  fashioned  man,  the  Lord  his  God 
Took  not  the  human  clay  from  one  sole  clod; 
But  earth  from  the  four  corners  of  the  world: 
South,  where  on  burning  winds  the  sand  is  whirled; 
The  green-leaved  East;  the  chill  North,  hoar  with  frost; 
The  West,  where  shattered  oaks  and  ships  are  tossed 
In  whirlwind  and  eclipse  and  earthquake  gloom; 
Lest  anywhere  the  Earth,  that  is  Man's  tomb, 
Should  say  to  him,  the  weary  traveler 
With  drooping  head,  who  fain  would  rest  in  her 
"Away!    What  man  art  thou,  I  know  thee  not!" 
But  that  his  mother  earth,  in  every  spot 
Where  he  would  lay  his  heart,  by  hope  beguiled, 
Should  say:    "Sleep  in  my  bosom,  O  my  child!" 

(W.  J.  Robertson.) 

STEPHANE  MALLARME  (1842-1898) 
Siffh 

MY  soul,  calm  sister,  towards  thy  brow,  whereon  scarce 
grieves 
An  autumn  strewn  already  with  its  russet  leaves. 


STEPHANE  MALLARME  189 

And  towards  the  wandering  sky  of  thine  angelic  eyes, 
Mounts,  as  in  melancholy  gardens  may  arise 
Some  faithful  fountain  sighing  whitely  towards  the  blue! 
Towards  the  blue,  pale  and  pure,  that  sad  October  knew, 
When,  in  those  depths,  it  mirrored  languors  infinite, 
And  agonizing  leaves  upon  the  waters  white, 
Windily  drifting,  traced  a  furrow  cold  and  dun, 
Where,  in  one  long  last  ray,  lingered  the  yellow  sun. 

(Arthur  Syntons.) 


Sea-Wind 

THE  flesh  is  sad,  alas!  and  all  the  books  are  read. 
Flight,  only  flight  I    I  feel  that  birds  are  wild  to  tread 
The  floor  of  unknown  foam,  and  to  attain  the  skies ! 
Nought,  neither  ancient  gardens  mirrored  in  the  eyes, 
Shall  hold  this  heart  that  bathes  in  waters  its  delight, 

0  nights !  nor  yet  my  waking  lamp,  whose  lonely  light 
Shadows  the  vacant  paper,  whiteness  profits  best. 

Nor  the  young  wife  who  rocks  her  baby  on  her  breast. 

1  will  depart!  O  steamer,  swaying  rope  and  spar, 
Lift  anchor  for  exotic  lands  that  lie  afar! 

A  weariness,  outworn  by  cruel  hopes,  still  clings 
To  the  last  farewell  handkerchief's  last  beckonings! 
And  are  not  these,  the  masts  inviting  storms,  not  these 
That  an  awakening  wind  bends  over  wrecking  seas. 
Lost,  not  a  sail,  a  sail,  a  flowering  isle,  ere  long? 
But,  O  ray  heart,  hear  thou,  hear  thou,  the  sailors'  song! 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


Anguish 

TO-NIGHT  I  do  not  come  to  conquer  thee, 
O  Beast  that  dost  the  sins  of  the  whole  world  bear, 
Nor  with  my  kisses'  weary  misery 
Wake  a  sad  tempest  in  thy  wanton  hair; 
It  is  that  heavy  and  that  dreamless  sleep 


190  STEPHANE  MALLARAIE 

I  ask  of  the  close  curtains  of  thy  bed, 
Which,  after  all  thy  treacheries,   folds  thee  deep, 
Who  knowest  oblivion  better  than  the  dead. 
For  Vice,  that  gnaws  with  keener  tooth  than  time 
Brands  me  as  thee,  of  barren  conquest  proud; 
But  while  thou  guardest  in  thy  breast  of  stone 
A  heart  that  fears  no  fang  of  any  crime, 
I  wander  palely,  haunted  by  my  shroud. 
Fearing  to  die  if  I  but  sleep  alone. 

(Arthur  SymoHS.) 

JOSE-MARIA  DE  HEREDIA  (1842-1905) 

The  Flute:  A  Pastoral 

EVENING!   A  flight  of  pigeons  in  clear  sky! 
What  wants  there  to  allay  love's  fever  now, 
Goatherd !  but  that  thy  pipe  should  overflow, 
While  through  the  reeds  the  river  murmurs  by? 
Here  in  the  plane-tree's  shadow  where  we  lie 
Deep  grows  the  grass  and  cool.     Sit  and  allow 
The  wandering  goat  to  scale  your  rocky  brow 
And  graze  at  will,  deaf  to  the  weanling's  cry. 

My  flute — a  simple  thing,  seven  oaten  reeds 
Glued  with  a  little  wax — sings,  plains,  or  pleads 

In  accents  deep  or  shrill  aS  I  require; 
Come !  thou  shalt  learn  Silenius'  sacred  art, 

And  through  this  channel  breath'd  will  fierce  desire 
Rise,  wing'd  with  music,  from  the  o'er-labored  heart. 

(A.  J.  C.  Grierson.) 

FRANCOIS  COPPEE  (1842-1908) 
The  Three  Birds 

I    SAID  to  the  ringdove  that  fluttered  above  me : 
"Fly  farther  than  meadows  and  barley-fields  are 
"And  bring  me  the  flower  that  shall  woo  her  to  love  me" : 
The  ringdove  said  only:    "Too  far!" 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE  191 

I  said  to  the  eagle :    "I  count  on  thy  pinions ; 

"Help,  help  me  to  ravish  the  fire  from  yon  sky! 
"If  haply  the  spell  be  in  starry  dominions" : 

The  eagle  said  only:    "Too  high!" 

"Devour  then" — I  said  to  the  vulture  that  tare  it — 
"This  heart  that  is  full  of  her  love,  but  if  fate 

"Hath  left  but  one  atom  untouclied  thou  shalt  spare  it": 
The  vulture   said   only:     "Too   late." 

(W.  J.  Robertson.) 


On  a  Tomb  in  Spring-Time 

THE  lone  cross  moulders  in  the  graveyard  hoary, 
But  April  weaves  again  her  leafy  bower; 
The  redwing  nestles  there,  and  with  sweet  flower 
A  rosebush  hides  the  sign  of  grief  in  glory. 

No  tear,  no  prayer,  breathes  such  memento  mori 
As  sobbing  nightingale  and  dewy  shower 
These   scents,   these   songs,   these   splendors   are  the 
dower 

Of  Earth  that  thrills  with  Love's  immortal  story. 

DeaH  and  forgotten  one !  whose  human  pride 
Dreamed,  doubtless,  dreams  of  life's  eternal  tide 
In  Paradise,  where  the  freed  spirit  reposes ; 

Hast  thou  not  here  to-day  a  lovelier  doom 
If  now  thy  soul,  diffused  about  this  tomb, 
Sings  with  the  birds,  and  blossoms  in  the  roses? 

(W.  J.  Robertson.) 


192  PAUL  VERLAINE 

PAUL  VERLAINE  (1844-1896) 
//  Pleut  Doucement  Sur  La  Ville 

TEARS  fall  within  mine  heart,      - 
As  rain  upon  the  town: 
Whence  does  this  languor  start, 
Possessing  all  mine  heait? 

O  sweet  fall  of  the  rain 
Upon  the  earth  and  roof, 
Unto  an  heart  in  pain, 
O  music  of  the  rain. 

Tears  that  have  no  reason 
Fall  in  my  sorry  heart: 
What,  there  was  no  treason? 
This  grief  hath  no  reason. 

Nay,  the  more  desolate, 
Because,  I  know  not  why, 
(Neither  for  love  nor  hate) 
Mine  heart  is  desolate. 

(Ernest  Dowson.) 


I 


Colloque  Sentimental 

NTO  the  lonely  park  all  frozen  fast, 
Awhile  ago  there  were  two  forms  who  passed. 


Lo,  are  their  lips  fallen  and  their  eyes  dead, 
Hardly  shall  a  man  hear  the  words  he  said. 

Into  the  lonely  park  all  frozen  fast, 

There  came  two  shadows  who  recall  the  past. 

"Dost  thou  remember  our  old  ecstasy?" 
"Wherefore  should  I  possess  that  memory?" — 


PAUL  VERLAINE  193 

"Doth  thine  heart  beat  at  my  sole  name  alway? 
Still  dost  thou  see  my  soul  in  visions?"    "Nay." — 

"They  were  fair  days  of  joy  unspeakable, 
Whereon  our  lips  were  joined?" — "I  cannot  tell." — 

"Were  not  the  heavens  blue,  was  not  hope  high?" — 
"Hope  was  fled  vanquished  down  the  darkling  sky." 

So  through  the  barren  oats  they  wandered, 
And  the  night  only  heard  the  words  they  said. 

(Ernest  Dowson.) 


A 


Spleen 

ROUND  were  all  the  roses  red, 
The  ivy  all  around  was  black. 


Dear,  so  thou  only  move  thine  head. 
Shall  all  mine  old  despairs  awake. 

Too  blue,  too  tender  was  the  sky, 
The  air  too  soft,  too  green  the  sea 

Always  I  fear,  I  know  not  why. 
Some  lamentable  flight  from  thee. 

I  am  so  tired  of  holly-sprays 
And  weary  of  the  bright  box-tree, 

Of  all  the  endless  country  ways ; 
Of  everything  alas,  save  thee. 

(Ernest  Dowson.) 

The  Sky  Is  Up  Above  the  Roof 

THE  sky  is  up  above  the  roof 
So  blue,  so  soft. 
A  tree  there,  up  above  the  roof, 
Swayeth  aloft. 


194  PAUL  VERLAINE 

A  bell  within  that  sky  we  see, 

Chimes  low  and  faint; 
A  bird  upon  that  tree  we  see, 

Maketh  complaint. 

Dear  God,  is  not  the  life  up  there 

Simple  and  sweet? 
How  peacefully  are  borne  up  there 

Sounds  of  the  street. 

What  hast  thou  done,  who  comest  here, 

To  weep  alway? 
Where  hast  thou  laid,  who  comest  here, 

Thy  youth  away? 


(Ernest  Dowson.) 


Parsifal 

WEARY  and  pale  as  death  from  that  great  fray 
Which  rolled  the  seas  of  battle  far  and  wide, 
He  stands  without  his  tent  ere  fall  of  day. 

And  leans  upon  that  Lance  which  pierced  the  side. 

The  virgin  vanquisher  of  death  and  shame, 

Clean  from  their  blood  who  ere  the  dark  have  died. 

In  robe  of  gold,  with  eyes  of  stillest  flame. 
He  worships  through  its  chalice,  crystal  clear, 
The  awful  wine  from  age  the  same. 

O  gentle  stripling  without  stain  or  fear. 
Scattering  my  thoughts  like  carrion  shapes  that  fly, 
Splendid  in  the  dark  place,  what  dost  thou  here? 

Lovely  he  stands  in  quivering  panoply, 
So  that  my  trembling  fingers  barely  touch 
Those  scarred  boys'  hands  intense  with  purity. 

(Cuthbert   Wright.) 


PAUL  VERLAINE  195 

A  Clymene 

MYSTICAL  strains  unheard, 
A  song  without  a  word, 
Dearest,  because  thine  eyes, 
Pale  as  the  skies. 

Because  thy  voice,  remote 
As  the  far  clouds  that  float 
Veiling  for  me  the  whole 
Heaven  of   the  soul. 

Because  the  stately  scent 
Of  thy  swan's  whiteness,  blent 
With  the  white  lily's  bloom 
Of  thy  perfume, 

Ah,  because  thy  dear  love, 
The  music  breathed  above 
By  angels  halo-crowned, 
Odor  and  sound, 

Hath,  in  my  subtle  heart. 
With   some  mysterious  art 
Transposed  thy  harmony, 
So  let  it  be. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 

L' Amour  Par  Terrea 

THE  wind  the  other  evening  overthrew 
The  little  Love  who  smiled  so  mockingly 
Down  that  mysterious  alley,  so  that  we. 
Remembering,  mused  thereon  a  whole  day  through. 

The  wind  has  overthrown  him.    The  poor  stone 
Lies  scattered  to  the  breezes.     It  is  sad 
To  see  the  lonely  pedestal,  that  had 

The  artist's  name,  scarce  visible,  alone, 


196  PAUL  VERLAINE 

Oh,  it  is  sad  to  see  the  pedestal 
Left  lonely,  and  in  dream  I  seem  to  hear 
Prophetic  voices  whisper  in  my  ear 

The  lonely  and  despairing  end  of  all. 

Oh,  it  is  sad.     And  thou  hast  not  found 

One  heart-throb  for  the  pity,  though  thine  eye 
Lights  at  the  gold  and  purple  butterfly 

Brightening  the  littered  leaves  upon  the  ground? 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


s 


Fantoches 

CARAMOUCHE  viraves  a  threatening  hand 
To  Pulcinella,  and  they  stand, 
Two  shadows,  black  against  the  moon. 


The  old  doctor  of  Bologna  pries 
For  simples  with  impassive  eyes, 
And  mutters  o'er  a  magic  rune. 

The  while  his  daughter,  scarce  half-dressed, 
Glides  slyly  'neath  the  trees,  in  quest 
Of  her  bold  pirate  lover's  sail; 

Her  pirate  from  the  Spanish  main. 
Whose  passion  thrills  her  in  the  pain 
Of  the  loud  languorous  nightingale. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


Pantomime 

PIERROT,  no  sentimental  swain, 
Washes  a  pate  down  again 
With  furtive  flagons,  white  and  red. 


PAUL  VERLAINE  197 

Cassandre,  to  chasten  his   content, 
Greets  with  a  tear  of  sentiment 
His  nephew  disinherited. 

That  blackguard  of  a  Harlequin 
Pirouettes,  and  plots  to  win 
His  Colombine  that  flits  and  flies. 

Colombine  dreams,  and  starts  to  find 
A  sad  heart  sighing  in  the  wind, 
And  in  her  heart  a  voice  that  sighs. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 

Les  Indolents 
(Fetes  Galantes) 

BAH,  spite  of  Fate,  that  says  us  nay. 
Suppose  we  die  together,  eh? 
— A  rare  conclusion  you  discover. 

— What's  rare  is  good.     Let  us  die  so, 
Like  lovers  in  Boccaccio. 
— Hi,  hi,  hi,  you  fantastic  lover. 

— Nay,  not  fantastic.     If  you  will, 
Fond,  surely  irreproachable. 

Suppose,  then,  that  we  die  together? 

— Good  sir,  your  jests  are  fitlier  told 
Than  when  you  speak  of  love  and  gold. 
"Why  speak  at  all,  in  this  glad  weather? 

Whereat,  behold   them  once   again, 
Torcis  beside  his  Dorimene, 

Not  far  from  two  blithe  rustic  rovers, 

For  some  caprice  of  idle  breath 
Deferring  a  delicious  death. 

Hi,  hi,  hi,  what  fantastic  lovers. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


198  PAUL  VERLAINE 

Cy  there 
(Fetes  Galantes) 

BY  favorable  breezes  fanned, 
A  trellised  arbor  is  at  hand 
To  shield  us  from  the  summer  airs; 

The  scent  of  roses,   fainting  sweet, 
Afloat  upon  the  summer  heat, 

Blends  with  the  perfume  that  she  wears. 

True  to  the  promise  her  eyes  gave, 
She  ventures  all,  and  her  mouth  rains 
A  dainty  fever  through  my  veins; 

And  Love,  fulfilling  all  things,  save 

Hunger,  we  'scape,  with  sweets  and  ices, 
The  folly  of  Love's  sacrifices. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 

Dans  I'Allee 

(Fetes  Galantes) 

AS  in  the  age  of  shepherd  king  and  queen. 
Painted  and  frail  ami<;jl  her  nodding  bows, 
Under  the  somber  branches,  and  between 
The  green  and  mossy  garden-ways  she  goes. 
With  little  mincing  airs  one  keeps  to  pet 
A  darling  and  provoking  perroquet. 
Her  long-trained  robe  is  blue,  the  fan  she  holds 
With  fluent  fingers  girt  with  heavy  rings. 
So  vaguely  hints  of  vague  erotic  things 
That  her  eye  smiles,  musing  among  its  folds. 
— Blonde  too,  a  tiny  nose,  a  rosy  mouth, 
Artful  as  that  sly  patch  that  makes  more  sly. 
In  her  divine  unconscious  pride  of  youth, 
The  slightly  simpering  sparkle  of  the  eye. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


PAUL  VERLAINE  199 

Mandoline 
(Fetes  Galantes.) 

THE  singers  of  serenades 
Whisper  their  faded  vows 
Unto  fair  listening  maids 
Under  the   singing  boughs. 

Tircis,  Aminte,  are  there, 

Clitandre  has  waited  long, 
And  Damis  for  many  a  fair 

Tyrant  makes  many  a  song. 

Their  short  vests,  silken  and  bright. 

Their  long  pale  silken  trains, 
Their  elegance  of  delight, 

Twine  soft  blue  silken  chains. 

And  the  mandolines  and  they, 

Faintlier   breathing,    swoon 
Into  the  rose  and  gray 

Ecstasy  of  the  moon. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 

Clair  De  Lime 

(Fetes  Galantes.) 

YOUR  soul  is  a  sealed  garden,  and  there  go 
With  masque  and  bergamasque  fair  companies 
Playing  on  lutes  and  dancing  and  as  though 
Sad  under  their  fantastic  fripperies. 

Though  they  in  minor  keys  go  carolling 
Of  love  the  conqueror  and  of  live  boon 
They  seem  to  doubt  the  happiness  they  sing 
And  the  song  melts  into  the  light  of  the  moon, 


200  PAUL  VERLAINE 

The  sad  light  of  the  moon,  so  lovely  fair 
That  all  the  birds  dream  in  the  leafy  shade 
And  the  slim  fountains  sob  into  the  air 
Among  the  marble  statues  in  the  glade. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 

Stir  I'Herhe 
(Fetes  Galantes.) 

THE  Abbe  wanders. — Marquis,  now 
Set  straight  your  periwig,  and  speak ! 
— This  Cyprus  wine  is  heavenly,  how 
Much  less,  Camargo,  than  your  cheek! 

— My  goddess  .  .  .  — Do,  mi,  sol,  la,  si. 
— Abbe,  such  treason  who'll  forgive  you? 
— May  I  die,  Ladies,  if  there  be 
A  star  in  heaven  I  will  not  give  you! 

— I'd  be  my  lady's  lapdog;  then  .  .  . 
— Shepherdess,  kiss  your  shepherd  soon, 
Shepherd,   come  kiss  .  .  .  — Well,  gentlemen? 
—Do,  mi,  so.— Hey,  good-night,  good  moon ! 

(Arthur  Symons.) 

A  la  Promenade 

(Fetes  Galantes.) 

THE  sky  so  pale,  and  the  trees,  such  frail  things, 
Seem  as  if  smiling  on  our  bright  array 
That  flits  so  light  and  gray  upon  the  way 
With  indolent  airs  and  fluttering  as  of  wings. 

The  fountain  wrinkles  under  a  faint  wind. 
And  all  the  sifted  sunlight  falling  through 
The  lime-trees  of  the  shadowy  avenue 
Comes  to  us  blue  and  shadowy-pale  and  thinned. 


PAUL  VERLAINE  £01 

Faultlessly  fickle,  and  yet  fond  enough, 
With  fond  hearts  not  too  tender  to  be  free, 
We  wander  whispering  deliciously, 
And  every  lover  leads  a  lady-love, 

Whose  imperceptible  and  roguish  hand 
Darts  now  and  then  a  dainty  tap,  the  lip 
Revenges  on  an  extreme  finger-tip, 
The  tip  of  the  left  little  finger,  and, 

The  deed  being  so  excessive  and  uncouth, 
A  duly  freezing  look  deals  punishment, 
That  in  the  instant  of  the  act  is  blent 
With  a  shy  pity  pouting  in  the  mouth. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


Dans  La  Grotte 

(Fetes  Galantes.) 

STAY,  let  me  die,  since  I  am  true, 
For  my  distress  will  not  delay. 
And  the  Hyrcanian  tigress  ravening  for  prey 
Is  as  a  little  lamb  to  you. 

Yes,  here  within,  cruel  Clymene, 

This  steel  which  in  how  many  wars 

How  many  a  Cyrus  slew,  or  Scipio,  now  prepares 

To  end  my  life  and  end  my  pain. 

But  nay,  what  need  of  steel  have  I 

To  haste  my  passage  to  the  shades? 

Did  not  love  pierce  my  heart,  beyond  all  mortal  aids. 

With  the  first  arrow  of  your  eye? 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


202  PAUL  VERLAINE 

Les  Ingenus 
(Fetes  Galantes.) 

HIGH   heels   and   long   skirts   intercepting  them. 
So  that,  according  to  the  wind  or  way, 
An  ankle  peeped  and  vanished  as  in  play; 
And  well  we  loved  the  malice  of  the  game. 

Sometimes  an  insect  with  its  jealous  sting 
Some  fair  one's  whiter  neck  disquieted, 
From  which  the  gleams  of  sudden  whiteness  shed 
Met  in  our  eyes  a  frolic  welcoming. 

The  stealthy  autumn  evening  faded  out, 

And  the  fair  creatures  dreaming  by  our  side 

Words  of  such  subtle  savor  to  us  sighed 

That  since  that  time  our  souls  tremble  and  doubt. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 

Cortege 
(Fetes  Galantes.) 

ASILVER-vested   monkey  trips 
And  pirouettes  before  the  face 
Of  one  who  twists  a  kerchief's  lace 
Between   her    well-gloved   finger-tips. 

A  little  negro,  a  red  elf. 
Carries  her  drooping  train,  and  holds 
At  arm's-length  all  the  heavy  folds, 
Watching  each   fold  displace  itself. 

The  monke}'^  never  lets  his  eyes 
Wander  from  the  fair  woman's  breast. 
Whits  wonder  that  to  be  possessed 
Would  call  a  god  out  of  the  skies. 


PAUL  VERLAINE  203 

Sometimes  the  little  negro  seems 
To  lift  his  sumptuous  burden  up 
Higher  than  need  be,  in  the  hope 
Of  seeing  what  all  night  he  dreams. 

She  goes  by  corridor  and  stair, 
Still  to  the  insolent  appeals 
Of  her  familiar  animals 
Indifferent  or  unaware. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


Les  Coquillages 

(Fetes  Galantes.y. 

EACH  shell  incrusted   in   the  grot 
Where   we   two   loved   each  other  well 
An  aspect  of  its  own  has  got. 

The  purple  of  a  purple  shell 

Is  our  souls'  color  when  they  make 

Our  burning  heart's  blood  visible. 

This  pallid  shell  affects  to  take 

Thy  languors,  when  thy  love-tired  eyes 

Rebuke  me  for  my  mockery's  sake. 

This  counterfeits  the  harmonies 
Of  thy  pink  ear,  and  this  might  be 
Thy  plump  short  nape  with  rosy  dyes. 

But  one,  among  these,  troubled  me. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


204  PAUL  VERLAINE 

En  Patinant 

(Fetes  Galantes.) 

WE  were  the  victims,  you  and  I, 
Madame,  of  mutual  self  deceits; 
And  that  which  set  our  brains  awry 
May  well  have  been  the  summer  heats. 

And  the  spring  too,  if  I  recall, 
Contributed  to  spoil  our  play, 
And  yet  its  share,  I  think,  was  small 
In  leading  you  and  me  astray. 

For  air  in  springtime  is  so  fresh 
That  rose-buds  Love  has  surely  meant 
To  match  the  roses  of  the  flesh. 
Have  odors  almost  innocent; 

And  even  the  lilies  that  outpour 
Their  biting  odors  where  the  sun 
Is  new  in  heaven,  do  but  the  more 
Enliven   and   enlighten    one, 

So  stealthily  the  zephyr  blows 
A  mocking  breath  that  renders  back 
The  heart's  rest  and  the  soul's  repose 
And  the  flowers  aphrodisiac, 

And  the  five  senses,  peeping  out, 
Take  up  their  station  at  the  feast. 
But,  being  by  themselves,  without 
Troubling  the  reason  in  the  least. 

That  was  the  time  of  azure  skies, 
(Madame,  do  you  remember  it?) 
And  sonnets  to  my  lady's  eyes, 
And  cautions  kisses  not  too  sweet. 


PAUL  VERLAINE  205 

Free  from  all  passion's  idle  pother, 
Full  of  mere  kindliness,  how  long, 
How  well  we  liked  not  loved  each  other, 
Without  one  rapture  or  one  wrong! 

Ah,  happy  hours!     But  summer  came; 
Farewell,   fresh  breezes  of  the   spring! 
A  wind  of  pleasure  like  a  flame 
Leapt  on  our  senses  wondering 

Strange  flowers,  fair  crimson-hearted  flowers. 
Poured  their  ripe  odors  over  us. 
And  evil  voices  of  the  hours 
Whispered  above  us  in  the  boughs. 

We  yield  to  it  all,  ah  me! 
What  vertigo  of  fools  held  fast 
Our  senses  in  its  ecstasy 
Until  the  heat  of  summer  passed? 

There  were  vain  tears  and  vainer  laughter. 
And  hands  indefinitely  pressed, 
Moist   sadnesses,   and   swoonings  after. 
And  what  vague  void  within  the  breast? 

But  autumn  came  to  our  relief. 
Its  light  grown  cold,  its  gusts  grown  rough, 
Came  to  remind  us,  sharp  and  brief, 
That  we  had  wantoned  long  enough, 

And  led  us  quickly  to  recover 
The  elegance  demanded  of 
Every  quite  irreproachable  lover 
And  leave  us  toiling  in  their  wake. 

Now  it  is  winter,  and  alas, 

Our  backers  tremble  for  their  stake; 

Already  other  sledges  pass 

And  leave  us  toiling  in  their  wake. 


206  PAUL  VERLAINE 

Put  both  your  hands  into  your  muff, 
Sit  back   now,   steady !   off   we  go. 
Fanchon  will  tell  us  soon  enough 
Whatever  news  there  is  to  know.     , 

(Arthur  Symons.) 

En  Bateau 

(Fetes  Galantes.) 

THE    shepherd's    star    with    trembling    glint 
Drops  in  black  water;  at  the  hint 
The  pilot  fumbles  for  his  flint. 

Now  is  the  time,  or  never,  sirs. 
No  hand  that  v/anders  wisely  errs : 
I  touch  a  hand,  and  is  it  hers? 

The  Knightly  Atys  strikes  the  strings. 
And  to  the  faithless  Chloris  flings 
A  look  that  speaks  of  many  things. 

The  Abbe  has  absolved  again 
Egle,  the  viscount  all  in  vain 
Has  given  his  hasty  heart  the  rein. 

Meanwhile  the  moon  is  up  and  streams 
Upon  the  skiff  that  flies  and   seems 
To  float  upon  a  tide  of  dreams. 


(Arthur  Symons.) 


Le  Faune 

(Fetes  Galantes.) 

AN  aged  faun  of  old  red  clay 
Laughs  from  the  grassy  bowling-green, 
Foretelling  doubtless  some  decay 
Of  mortal  moments  so  serene 


PAUL  VERLAINE  207 

That  lead  us  lightly  on  our  way 
(Love's  piteous  pilgrims  have  we  been!) 
To  this  last  hour  that  runs  away 
Dancing  to  the  tambourine. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


Lettre 

(Fetes  Galantcs.) 

FAR  from  your  side  removed  by  thankless  cares 
(The  gods   are   witness   when   a   lover   swears) 
I  languish  and  I  die,  Madame,  as  still 
My  use  is,  which  I  punctually  fulfill, 
And   go,    through    heavy-hearted    woes   conveyed, 
Attended   ever  by  your  lovely  shade, 
By  day  in  thought,  by  night  in  dreams  of  hell, 
So  that  at  length  my  dwindHng  body  lost 
In  very  soul,  I  too  become  a  ghost, 
I  too,  and  in  the  lamentable  stress 
Of  vain  desires  remembering  happiness. 
Remembered  kisses,  now,  alas,  unfelt. 
My  shadow  shall  into  your  shadow  melt. 

Meanwhile,  dearest,  your  most  obedient  slave. 

How  does  the  sweet  society  behave, 

Thy  cat,  thy  dog,  thy  parrot?  and  is  she 

Still,  as  of  old,  the  black-eyed  Silvanie 

(I  had  loved  black  eyes  if  thine  had  not  been  blue) 

Who  ogled  me  at   moments,  palsambleu ! 

Thy  tender   friend   and   thy    sweet   confidant? 

One  dream  there  is,  Madame,  long  wont  to  haunt 

This  too  impatient  heart:  to  put  the  earth 

And  all  its  treasures    (of  how  little  worth!) 

Before  your  feet  as  tokens  of  a  love 

Equal  to   the   most   famous   flames  that  move 

The  hearts  of  men  to  conquer  all  but  death. 


208  PAUL  VERLAINE 

Cleopatra  was  less  loved,  yes,  on  my  faith, 
By  Antony  or  Csesar  than  you  are, 
Madame,  by  me,  who  truly  would  by  far 
Out-do  the  deeds  of  Caesar  for  a  smile, 
O   Cleopatra,  Queen  of  word  and  wile. 
Or,  for  a  kiss,  take  flight  with  Antony. 

With  this,  farewell,  dear,  and  no  more  from  me; 
How  can  the  time  it  takes  to  read  it,  quite 
Be  worth  the  trouble  that  it  took  to  write? 

(Arthur  Syntons.) 


Colomhine 
(Fetes  Galantes.) 

THE  foolish  Leander, 
Cape-covered  Cassander, 
And  which 
Is  Pierrot?    'Tis  he 
With  the  hop  of  the  flea 
Leaps  the  ditch; 

And  Harlequin  who 

Rehearses   anew 

His  sly  task. 

With  his  dress  that's  a  wonder, 

And  eyes  shining  under 

His  mask; 

Mi,   sol,   mi,   fa,   do! 

How  gayly  they  go, 

And  they  sing 

And  they  laugh  and  they  twirl 

Round  the  feet  of  a  girl 

Like  the  spring. 

Whose  eyes  are  as  green 
As  a  cat's  are,  and  keen 


PAUL  VERLAINE  209 

As  its  claws, 

And  her  eyes  without  frown 
Bid  all  new-comers :  Down 
With  your  paws! 

On  they  go  with  the  force 
Of  the  stars  in  their  course, 
And  the   speed: 
O  tell  me  toward  what 
Disaster  unthought, 
Without  heed 

The  implacable  fair, 

A  rose  in  her  hair, 

Holding  up 

Her  skirts  as  she  runs 

Leads  this  dance  of  the  dunce 

And  the  dupe? 

(Arthur  Sytnons.) 


En  Sourdine 
(Fetes  Galantes.) 

CALM    where    twilight    leaves    have    stilled 
With  their  shadow  light  and  sound, 
Let  our  silent  love  be  filled 
With  a   silence  as  profound. 

Let  our  ravished  senses  blend 
Heart  and   spirit,   thine   and  mine. 
With  vague  languors  that  descend 
From  tKe  branches  of  the  pine. 

Close  thine  eyes  against  the  day, 
Fold  thine  arms  across  thy  breast, 
And  for  ever  turn  away 
All  desire  of  all  but  rest. 


210  PAUL  VERLAINE 

Let  the   lulling   breaths   that  pass 
In   soft  wrinkles  at  thy   feet, 
Tossing  all  the  tawny  grass, 
This  and  only  this  repeat. 

And  when   solemn   evening 
Dims  the  forest's  dusky  air, 
Then  the  nightingale  shall  sing 
The  delight  of  our  despair. 

(Arthur  Syntons.) 

Soleils  Couchants 

(From  Poemcs  Saturniens.) 

PALE  dawn  delicately 
Over   earth    has   spun 
The  sad  melancholy 
Of  the  setting  sun. 
Sad  melancholy 
Brings  oblivion 
In    sad    songs   to   me 
With  the  setting  sun. 
And  the   strangest   dreams, 
Dreams  like  sun  that  set 
On  the  banks  of  the   streams, 
Ghost  and   glory  met. 
To  my  sense  it  seems, 
Pass,  and  without  let, 
Like  great  suns  that  set 
On  the  banks  of  streams. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 

Chansons  d'Jutomne 
(From  Poemes  Saturniens.) 

WHEN   a   sighing  begins 
In  the  violins 
Of  the  autumn-song, 


PAUL  VERLAINE  211 

My  heart  is  drowned 
In  the  slow   sound 
Languorous  and  long. 

Pale  as  with  pain, 
Breath  fails  me  when 
The  hour  tolls  deep. 
My  thoughts  recover 
The  days   that  are  over, 
And  I  weep. 

And   I  go 

Whr>re  the  winds  know, 

Broken  and  brief, 

To  and  fro. 

As  the  winds  blow 

A  dead  leaf. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 

Femme  Et   Chatte 
(From  Pocnics  Saturniens.) 

THEY  were   at  play,   she  and  her  cat. 
And  it  was  marvelous  to  mark 
The  white  paw  and  the  white  hand  pat 
Each  other  in  the  deepening  dark. 

The  stealthy   little  lady  hid 
Under   her   mittens'    silken    sheath 
Her  deadly  agate  nails  that  thrid 
The  silk-like  dagger-points  of  death. 

The  cat   purred   primly   and  drew  in 

Her    claws    that    were    of    steel    filed    thin: 

The  devil  was  in  it  all  the  same. 

And  in  the  boudoir,  while  a  shout 

Of  laughter  in  the  air  rang  out, 

Four  sparks  of  phosphor  shone  like  flame. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


212  PAUL  VERLAINE 

From  La  Bonne  Chanson 


THE  white  moon  sits 
And  seems  to  brood 
Where  a  swift   voice  flits 
From  each  branch  in  the  wood 
That  in  the  tree-tops  cover  .  .  . 

O  lover,  my  lover! 

The  pool  in  the  meadows 
Like  a  looking-glass 
Casts  back  the  shadows 
That  over  it  pass 
Of  the  willow-bower.  .  .  . 

Let  us  dream :  'tis  the  hour.  .  . 

A  tender  and  vast 

Lull  of  content 

Like  a  cloud  is  cast 

From  the  firmament 

Where  one  planet  is  bright.  .  .  . 

'Tis  the  hour  of  delight. 


(Arthur  Symons.) 


II 


THE  fireside,   the   lamp's   little   narrow   light; 
The  dream  with  head  on  hand,  and  the  delight 
Of  eyes  that  lose  themselves  in  loving  looks; 
The  hour  of  steaming  tea  and  of  shut  books; 
The  solace  to  know  evening  almost  gone; 
The  dainty  weariness  of  waiting  on 
The  nuptial  shadow  and  night's  softest  bliss; 
Ah,    it   is    this    that   without    respite,   this 
That  without   say,   my  tender   fancy   seeks, 
Mad  with  the  months  and  furious  with  the  weeks. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


PAUL  VERLAINE  213 

From  Romances  sans  Paroles 


^frylS  the  ecstasy  of  repose, 

J^     'Tis  love  when  tired  lids  close, 
'Tis   the   wood's    long    shuddering 
In  the  embrace  of  the  wind, 
'Tis  where  gray  boughs  are  thinned, 
Little  voices  that  sing, 

O  fresh  and  frail  is  the  sound 
That  twitters  above,  around. 
Like  the  sweet,  tiny  sigh 
That  lies  in  the  shaken  grass; 
Or  the  sound  when  waters  pass 
And  the  pebbles  shrink  and  cry. 

What   soul   is   this   that   complains 

Over  the   sleeping  plains, 

And  what  is  it  that  it  saith? 

Is  It  mine,  is  it  thine, 

This  lowly  hymn  I  divine 

In  the  warm  night,  low  as  a  breath? 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


II 


I   DIVINE,  through  the  veil  of  a  murmuring. 
The  subtle  contour  of  voices  gone, 
And  I  see,  in  the  glimmering  lights  that  sing, 
The   promise,   pale   love,   of   a   future  dawn. 

And  my  soul  and  my  heart  in  trouble 
What  are  they  but  an  eye  that  sees. 
As  through  a  mist  an  eye  sees  double, 
Airs  forgotten  of  songs  like  these? 


214  PAUL  VERLAINE 

O  to  die  of  no  other  dying, 
Love,  than  this  that  computes  the  showers 
Of  old  hours  and  of  new  hours  flying: 
O  to  die  of  the  swing  of  the  hours ! 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


Ill 


A  FRAIL  hand  in  the  rose-gray  evening 
Kisses  the  shining  keys  that  hardly  stir, 
While,  with  the  light,  small  flutter  of  a  wing, 
And  old  song,  like  an  old  tired  wanderer, 
Goes  very  softly,  as  if  trembling, 
About  the  room  long  redolent  of  Her. 

What  lullaby  is  this  that  conies  again 

To  dandle  my  poor  being  with  its  breath? 

What  wouldst  thou  have  of  me,  gay  laughing  strain? 

What  hadst  thou,  desultory  faint  refrain 

That  now  into  the  garden  to  thy  death 

Floatest  through  the  half-opened  window-pane? 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


o 


IV 

SAD,    sad    was    my    soul,    alas ! 
For  a  woman !  a  woman's  sake  it  was. 


I  have  had  no  comfort  since  that  day. 
Although   my   heart   went   its  way, 

Although    my   heart   and    my   soul   went 
From  the  woman  into  banishment. 

I  have  had  no  comfort  since  that  day. 
Although  my  heart  went  its  way. 

And  my  heart,  being  sore  in  me, 
Said  to  my  soul :    How  can  this  be. 


PAUL  VERLAINE  215 

How  can  this  be  or  have  been  thus. 
This  proud,  sad  banishment  of  us? 

My  soul  said  to  my  heart:  Do  I 
Know  what  snare  we  are  tangled  by, 

Seeing   that,   banished,    we   know    not    whether 
We  are  divided  or  together? 

(Arthur  Syntons.) 


WEARILY  the  plain's 
Endless  length  expands; 
The   snow   shines   like  grains 
Of  the  shifting  sands. 

Light  of  day  is  none, 
Brazen  is  the  sky; 
Overhead  the  moon 
Seems  to  live  and  die. 

"Where  the  woods  are  seen, 
Gray  the  oak-trees  lift 
Through  the  vaporous  screen 
Like  the  clouds  that  drift. 

Light  of  day  is  none, 
Brazen  is  the  sky; 
Overhead  the  moon 
Seems  to  live  and  die. 

Broken-winded  crow. 
And  you,  lean  wolves,  when 
The  sharp  north-winds  blow, 
What  do   you  do  then? 


216  PAUL  VERLAINE 

Wearily  the  plain's 
Endless  length  expands; 
The    snow    shines    like    grains 
Of  the  shifting  sands. 

(Arthur  Sytnons.) 

VI 

THERE'S    a    flight    of    green    and    red 
In  the  hurry  of  hills  and  rails, 
Through   the   shadowy  twilight   shed 
By  the  lamps  as  daylight  pales. 

Dim  gold  light  flushes  to  blood 
In  humble  hollows  far  down ; 
Birds  sing  low  from  a  wood 
Of  barren  trees  without  crown. 

Scarcely  more  to  be  felt 
Than  that   autumn  is  gone; 
Languors,  lulled  in  me,  melt 
In  the  still  air's  monotone. 

(Arthur  Sytnons.) 

VII 

THE   roses   were   all    red. 
The  ivy   was  all   black: 
Dear,  if  you  turn  your  head, 
All  my  despairs  come  back. 

The  sky  was  too  blue,  too  kind, 
The  sea  too  green,  and  the  air 
Too  calm :  and  I  know  in  my  mind 
I    shall   wake   and    not   find   you   there. 

I  am  tired  of  the  box-tree's  shine 
And  the  holly's,  that  never  will  pass, 
And  the  plain's   unending  line, 
And  all  but  you,  alas. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


I 


D 


PAUL  VERLAINE  217 

VIII 
ANCE  the  jig! 


I  loved  best  her  pretty  eyes 
Clearer    than    stars    in    any    skies, 
I  loved  her  eyes  for  their  dear  lies. 

Dance  the  jig! 

And   ah!   the   ways,  the   ways   she  had 

Of  driving  a  poor  lover  mad: 

It  made  a  man's  heart  sad  and  glad. 

Dance  the  jig! 

But  now  I  find  the  old  kisses  shed 
From  her  flower-mouth  a   rarer  red 
Now  that  her  heart  to  mine  is  dead. 

Dance  the  jig! 

And  I  recall,  now  I  recall 

Old  days  and  hours,  and  ever  shall, 

And  that  is  best,  and  best  of  all. 

Dance  the  jig! 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


I.    Art  Poetique 
(From  Jadis  et  Naguere.) 

MUSIC  first  and  foremost  of  all! 
Choose  your  measure  of  odd  not  even, 
Let  it  melt  in  the  air  of  heaven, 
Pose  not,  poise  not,  but  rise  and  fall. 


218  PAUL  VERLAINE 

Choose  your  words,  but  think  not  whether 
Each  to  other  of  old  belong: 
What  so  dear  as  the  dim  gray  song 
Where  clear  and  vague  are  joined  together? 

'Tis  veils  of  beauty  for  beautiful  eyes, 
'Tis  the  trembling  light  of  the  naked  noon, 
'Tis  a  medley  of  blue  and  gold,  the  moon 
And  stars  in  the  cool  of  autumn  skies. 

Let  every  shape  of  its  shade  be  born; 

Color,  away !  come  to  me,  shade ! 

Only  of  shade  can  the  marriage  be  made 

Of  dream  with  dream  and  of  flute  with  horn. 

Shun  the  Point,  lest  death  with  it  come, 
Unholy  laughter  and  cruel  wit 
(For  the  eyes  of  the  angels  weep  at  it) 
And  all  the  garbage  of  scullery-scum. 

Take  Eloquence,  and  wring  the  neck  of  him! 

You  had  better,  by  force,  from  time  to  time, 

Put  a  little  sense  in  the  head  of  Rhyme: 

If  you  watch  him  not,  you  will  be  at  the  beck  of  him. 

O,  who  shall  tell  us  the  wrongs  of  Rhyme? 
What  witless  savage  or  what  deaf  boy 
Has  made  for  us  this  two-penny  toy 
Whose  bells  ring  hollow  and  out  of  time? 

Music  always  and  music  still! 

Let  your  verse  be  the  wandering  thing 

That  flutters  in  the  light  from  a  soul  on  the  wing 

Towards  other  skies  at  a  new  whim's  will. 

Let  your  verse  be  the  luck  of  the  lure 

Afloat  on  the  winds  that  at  morning  hint 

Of  the  odors  of  thyme  and  the  savor  of  mint  .  .  . 

And  all  the  rest  is  literature. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


PAUL  VERLAINE  219 

//.  Mezzet'ui  Chantant 

(From  Jadis  et  Nagucre.) 

GO,  and  with  never  a  care 
But   the   care    to   keep    happiness! 
Crumple  a   silken  dress 
And  snatch  a  song  in  the  air. 

Hear  the  moral  of  all  the  wise 
In  a  world  where  happy  folly 
Is  wiser  than  melancholy: 
Forget  the  hour  as  it  flies! 

The  one  thing  needful  on  earth,  it 
Is  not  to  be   whimpering. 
Is  life  after  all  a  thing 
Real  enough  to  be  worth  it? 

(Arthur  Symons.) 

From  Sagesse 
I 

THE  little  hands  that  once  were  mine, 
The  hands  I  loved,  the  lovely  hands, 
After   the  roadways   and  the  strands. 
And  realms  and  kingdoms  once  divine, 

And  mortal  loss  of  all  that  seems 
Lost  with   the  old   sad   pagan  things, 
Royal  as  in  the   days  of  kings 
The  dear  hands  open  to  my  dreams. 

Hands  of   dream,   hands  of   holy  flame 
Upon  my  soul  in  blessing  laid. 
What  is  it  that  these  hands  have  said 
That  my  soul  hears  and  swoons  to  them? 


a20  PAUL  VERLAINE 

Is  it  a  phantom,  this  pure  sight 
Of  mother's  love  made  tenderer. 
Of  spirit  with  spirit  linked  to  share 
The  mutual  kinship  of  delight? 

Good   sorrow,   dear  remorse,   and   ye, 
Blest  dreams,  O  hands  ordained  of  heaven 
To  tell  me  if  I  am  forgiven. 
Make  but  the  sign  that  pardons  me ! 

(Arthur  Symons.) 

II 

OMY  God,  thou  hast  wounded  me  with  love, 
Behold  the  wound,  that  is  still  vibrating, 
O  my  God,  thou  hast  wounded  me  with  love. 

O  my  God,  thy  fear  hath  fallen  upon  me, 
Behold  the  burn  is  there,  and  it  throbs  aloud, 
O  my  God,  thy  fear  hath  fallen  upon  me. 

O  my  God,  I  have  known  that  all  is  vile 
And  that  thy  glory  hath  stationed  itself  in  me, 
O  my  God,  I  have  known  that  all  is  vile. 

Drown  my  soul  in  floods,  floods  of  thy  wine. 
Mingle  my  life  with  the  bodj-  of  thy  bread, 
Drown  my  soul  in  floods,  floods  of  thy  wine. 

Take  my  blood,  that  I  have  not  poured  out. 

Take  my  flesh  unworthy  of  suffering, 

Take  my  blood,  that  I  have  not  poured  out. 

Take  my  brow,  that  has   only  learned   to  blush. 
To  be  the  footstool  of  thine  adorable  feet. 
Take   my  brow,   that  has  only   learned   to  blush. 

Take   my  hands,  because  they  have   labored   not 
For  coals  of  fire  and  for  rare  frankincense, 
Take  my  hands,  because  they  have  labored  not. 


PAUL  VERLAINE  221 

Take  my  heart,  that  has  beaten   for  vain  things, 

To  throb  under  the  thorns  of    Calvary, 

Take  my  heart,  that  has  beaten   for  vain  things. 

Take  my  feet,  frivolous  travelers, 

That   they  may  run   to   the   crying  of   thy  grace, 

Take  my  feet,  frivolous  travelers. 

Take   my  voice,   a  harsh   and   a   lying   noise. 

For  the  reproaches  of  thy   Penitence, 

Take   my  voice,  a   harsh  and  a   lying  noise. 

Take    mine    eyes,    luminaries    of    deceit, 

That  they  may  be  extinguished  in  the  tears  of  prayer, 

Take   mine   eyes,    luminaries    of    deceit. 

Alas,  thou,  God  of  pardon  and  promises, 
What  is  the  pit  of  mine  ingratitude, 
Alas,  thou,  God  of  pardon  and  promises. 

God  of  terror  and  God  of  holiness, 
Alas,  my  sinfulness  is  a  black  abyss, 
God  of  terror  and  God  of  holiness. 

Thou,  God  of  peace,  of  joy  and  delight. 
All    my   tears,   all    my   ignorances, 
Thou,  God  of  peace,  of  joy  and  delight 

Thou,  O  God,  knowest  all  this,  all  this, 
How  poor  I  am,  poorer  than  any  man, 
Thou,  O  God,  knowest  all  this,  all  this. 

And  what  I  have,  my  God,  I  give  to  thee. 

(Arthur  Sytnons.) 

Ill 

SLUMBER    dark   and    deep 
Falls  across  my  life; 
I   will  put  to   sleep 
Hope,  desire  and  strife. 


222  PAUL  VERLAINE 

All  things  pass  away, 
Good  and  evil  seem 
To    my    soul    to-day 
Nothing  but  a  dream; 

I    a    cradle    laid 

In  a  hollow  cave, 

By  a  great  hand  swayed: 

Silence,    like   the   grave. 


(Arthur  Symons.) 


IV 


THE  body's  sadness  and  the  languor  thereof 
Melt  and  blow  me  with  pity  till  I  could  weep, 
Ah!    when  the  dark  hours  break  it  down  in  sleep 
And  the  bedclothes  score  the  skin  and  the  hot  hands  move; 

Alert  for  a  little  with  the  fever  of  the  day. 

Damp  still  with  the  heavy  sweat  of  the  night  that  has  thinned, 

Like  a  bird  that  trembles  on  a  roof  in  the  wind : 

And  the  feet  that  are  sorrowful  because  of  the  way, 

And  the  breast  that  a  hand  has  scarred  with  a  double  blow. 
And  the  mouth  that  as  an  open  wound  is  red. 
And  the  flesh  that  shivers  and  is  a  painted  show. 
And  the  eyes,  poor  eyes  so  lovely  with  tears  unshed 
For  the  sorrow  of  seeing  this  also  over  and  done: 
Sad  body,  how  weak  and  how  punished  under  the  sun! 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


FAIRER    is    the    sea 
Than   the   minster   high. 
Faithful  nurse  is  she, 
And  last  lullaby, 
And  the  Virgin  prays 
Over  the  sea's  ways. 


PAUL  VERLAINE  223 

Gifts  of  grief  and  guerdons 
From  her  bounty  come, 
And  I  hear  her  pardons 
Chide  her  angers  home; 
Nothing  in  her  is 
Unforgivingness. 

She  is   piteous, 
She    the    perilous! 
Friendly  things  to  us 
The  wave  sings  to  us : 
You  whose  hope  is  past, 
Here  is  peace  at  last. 

And  beneath  the  skies, 
Brighter-hued  than  they, 
She  has  azure  dyes, 
Rose  and  green  and  gray. 
Better  is  the  sea 
Than  all  fair  things  or  we. 

(Arthur  Syinons.) 


Impression  Fausse 
(From  Parallelement.) 

LITTLE  lady  mouse. 
Black  upon  the  gray  of  light; 
Little  lady  mouse. 
Gray  upon  the  night. 

Now  they  ring  the  bell, 
All  good  prisoners  slumber  deep; 
Now  they  ring  the  bell. 
Nothing  now  but  sleep. 

Only    p/easant    dreams. 
Love's  enough  for  thinking  of; 


224  PAUL  VERLAINE 

Only   pleasant    dreams. 
Long  live  love! 

Moonlight  over  all. 
Some  one  snoring  heavily; 
Moonlight  over  all 
In  reality. 

Now  there  comes  a  cloud, 
It  is  dark  as  midnight  here; 
Now  there  comes  a  cloud, 
Dawn  begins  to  peer. 

Little   lady  mouse, 
Rosy  in  a  ray  of  blue, 
Little    lady    mouse : 
Up  now,  all  of  you! 

(Arthur  Symons.) 

From  Chansons  Pour  Elle 


Y 


OU  believe  that  there  may  be 
Luck  in  strangers  in  the  tea: 
believe  only  in  your  eyes. 


You  believe  in  fairy-tales, 

Days  one  wins  and  days  one  fails: 

I  believe  only  in  your  lies. 

You  believe  in  heavenly  powers. 
In   some    saint   to   whom   one   prays 
Or  in  some  Ave  that  one  says. 

I   believe   only   in   the  hours, 

Colored  with  the  rosy  lights 

You  rain   for  me   on  sleepless   nights. 

And  so  firmly  I  receive 

These  for  truth,  that  I  believe 

That  only  for  your  sake  I  live. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


w 


PAUL  VERLAINE  225 


From  Epigrammes 

HEN  we  go  together,  if  I  may  see  her  again, 
Into  the  dark  wood  and  the  rain; 


When  we  are  drunken  with  air  and  the  sun's  delight 
At  the  brink  of  the  river  of  light; 

When  we  are  homeless  at  last,  for  a  moment's  space 
Without   city   or  abiding-place; 

And  if  the  slow  good-will  of  the  world  still  seem 
To  cradle  us  in  a  dream; 

Then  let  us  sleep  the  last  sleep  with  no  leave-taking. 
And  God  will  see  to  the  waking. 

(Arthur  Symons.) 


JEAN  RICHEPIN    (1849-) 
The  Death  of  the  Gods 

SEE!  brothers,  weak  and  weary  have  I  striven 
Against  the  Almighty  Ones  clothed  round  with  fear; 
Glorying  in  impious  pride  my  pledge  was  given, 
And,  having  ransacked  Heaven,  lo,  I  am  here! 

When  I  snufifed  out  the  Gods,  as  one  erases 
A  word,  they  thundered  not  nor  reasoned  why: 

You,  therefore,  shall  lift  up  your  prostrate  faces 
And  gaze  on  these  great  corpses  where  they  lie. 

You,   searching  Heaven,  void  as  a  pauper's  fingers. 
Shall  scorn  the  phantoms  that  no  more  bewitch. 

And,  free  to  pluck  from  hope  the  flower  that  lingers. 
Shall  cast  your  terrors  in  the  wayside  ditch. 


226  JEAN  RICHEPIN 

You  shall  tear  down  the  veils  of  fraud  and  wonder, 
Finding  no  Lord  beyond  Life's  utmost  bars, 

And  watch  in  brooding  space,  now  cloven  asunder, 
Beneath  the  wing  of   Chance  burst  forth  Stars. 

For  you  the  Force  of  Things  in  wide  dispersal 

Streams,  as  a  shoreless  ocean  flows, 
In  endless  whirlpool  of  life  universal, 

The  whence  and  why  whereof  no  mortal  knows. 

You,  knowing  your  own  souls  lost  in  infinite  numbers, 
Even  as  a  dewdrop  plunged  in  the  deep  stream. 

Shall  judge  the  Gods,  those  nightmares  of  man's  slumbers. 
In  life's  vast  All  as  shadows  of  a  dream. 

Tranquil,  as  with  a  conqueror's  calm  elation. 

Deceived  no  more  by  priests'  and  preachers'  arts, 

In  this  warm  coign  o'  the  world's  blest  habitation 
You  shall  repose  in  peace  your  ransomed  hearts. 

Good  shall  be  yours,  though  mixed  with  evil  measure. 
Even  as  the  nursling,  the  poor  vagrant's  child 

That  sucks  her  breast  closes  his  eyes  in  pleasure, 
Heedless  of  wrinkled  teats  and  skin  defiled. 

Qeansing  your  souls  of  every  vague  desire. 

Your  love,  on  wives'  and  mothers'   flowery  lips, 

Shall  soon  forget  youth's  kiss  of   frenzied  fire 
On  shadowy  bosoms  lost  in  dim  eclipse. 

By  simple  craving  that  like  comfort  pleases, 

Renewed  at  ease  and  with  each  morning  fresh; 

By  hope  drawn  nigh,  that  small  endeavor  seizes. 
Your  spirits  shall  live  free  in  the  freed  flesh. 

Longings  fulfilled  and  solace  for  all  sadness 
Shall  be  your  blissful  lot,  your  wonted  fare. 

So  shall  ye  drink  the  wine  of  holiest  gladness 
In  boundless  Beauty  and  Love  that  all  may  share. 


JEAN  RICHEPIX  227 

No  longer  shall  your  hearts  dread  pale-eyed  Sorrow, 
Misshapen  Will,  Remorse  with  choking   curse; 

Living   like  children   careless   of   the  morrow, 
Cradled  on  Nature's  knees,  your  loving  nurse. 

Faith's  agonies,  the  barren  vows  of  ages, 

Fantastic  superstitions,  cruel  deeds. 
Gospels,  Korans,  Vedas,  those  lying  pages, 

The  time-worn  wreckage  of  Beliefs  and  Creeds, 

Like  carrion  vultures,  hoarse  and  fierce  and  savage. 
That  hovered  on  your  hearts  six  thousand  years 

And  with  your  bleeding  flesh  glutted  their  ravage, 
Fouling  the  air  in  mockery  of  your  fears, 

Baffled  and  blinded  by  the  morning  glory 

And  shrieking  in  the  sun's  remorseless  light, 

Shall  whirl  in  confused  flock,  haggard  and  hoary, 
As  in  their  dismal  swarm  the  birds  of  night. 

And  when  at  last,  with  clouds  and  darkness  blended, 
They  speed  their  flight,  like  a  funereal  knell 

Their    ghosts    shall    hear    your    laughter    vast    and    splendid 
Exultant  from  earth's  shivering  bosom  swell. 

Then  comes  the  end.     Climbing  on  fanes  forsaken 
Wild  vines  shall  hide  the  doors,  like  grass  on  graves; 

Dead  idol  and  dead  priest  no  more  shall  waken. 
Oblivion  rolls   them  under  her   slow   waves. 

Alone  lost  legends  live  in  hearts  of  lovers 
That  wander  in  the  woods  of  old  romance. 

Charmed  by  an  echoing  voice,  that  vaguely  hovers, 
To  linger  there  awhile  in  mystic  trance. 

Even  they,  losing  the  names  dark  generations 
Gave  to  those  bloody  specters,  when  day  comes. 

Shall  hear  their  echoes,  hushed  to  faint  vibrations. 
Die  like  the  muffled  roll  of  distant  drums. 


228  JEAN  RICHEPIN 

Then,  when  those  names  that  filled  the  world's  loud  clarion 

Sink  like  the  memory  of  a  vanished  clan, 
Man's  pride  shall  spring,  a  rose  from  God's  grown  carrion, 

For  earth  has  one  sole  God,  and  He  is  Man! 

(W.  J.  Robertson.) 

GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  (1850-1893) 
Desires 

THE  dream  of  one  is  to  have  wings  and  follow 
The  soaring  heights  of  space  with  clamorous  cries; 
With  lissome  fingers  seize  the  supple  swallow 
And  lose  himself  in  somber  gulfs  of  skies. 

Another  would  have  strength  with  circling  shoulder 

To  crush  the  wrestler  in  his  close  embrace; 
And,  not  with  yielding  loins  or  blood  grown  colder, 

Stop,  with  one  stroke,  wild  steeds  in  frantic  chase. 

What  I  love  best  is  loveliness  corporeal : 

I  would  be  beautiful  as  gods  of  old ; 
So  from  my  radiant  limbs  love  immemorial 

In  hearts  of  men  a  living  flame  should  hold. 

I  would  have  women  love  me  ii;  wild   fashion — 
Choose  one  to-day  and  with  to-morrow  change; 

Pleased,  when  I  pass,  to  pluck  the  flower  of  passion. 
As  fruits  are  plucked  when  forth  the  fingers  range. 

Each  leaves  upon  the  lips  a  different  flavor; 

These  diverse  savors  bid  their  sweetness  grow. 
My  fond  caress  would   fly  with  wandering  favor 

From  dusky  locks  to  locks  of  golden  glow. 

But  most  of  all  I  love  the  unlooked-for  meeting. 
Those  ardors  in  the  blood  loosed  by  a  glance, 

The  conquests  of  an  hour,  as  swiftly  fleeting, 
Kisses  exchanged  at  the  sole  will  of  chance.     . 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  229 

At  daybreak  I  would  dote  on  the  dark  charmer, 
Whose  clasping  arms  cling  close  in  amorous  swoon; 

And,  lulled  at  eve  by  the  blonde  siren's  murmur. 
Gaze  on  her  pale  brow  silvered  by  the  moon. 

Then  my  calm  heart,  that  holds  no  haunting  specter. 
Would  lightly  towards  a  fresh  chimsera  haste: 

Enough  in  these  delights  to  sip  the  nectar, 
For  in  the  dregs  there  lurks  a  bitter  taste. 

(W.  J.  Robertson.) 


Revenants 

(From  the  French) 

AT  dead  of  unseen  night  ghosts  of  the  departing  assem- 
bling 
Flit  to  the  graves,  where  each  in  body  had  burial. 
Ah,  then  revisiting  my  sad  heart  their  desolate  tomb 
Troop  the  desires  and  loves  vainly  buried  long  ago. 

(Robert  Bridges.) 

ARTHUR  RIMBAUD   (1854-1891) 
Sensation 

ON  summer  evenings  blue,  pricked  by  the  wheat 
On  rustic  paths  the  thin  grass  I  shall  tread, 
And  feel  its  freshness  underneath  my  feet, 
And,   dreaming,  let  the  wind  bathe  my  bare  head. 

I  shall  not  speak,  nor  think,  but,  walking  slow 

Through   Nature,   I   shall  rove  with  Love  my  guide. 

As  gipsies  wander,  where,  they  do  not  know, 
Happy  as  one  walks  by  a  woman's  side. 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 


230  ALBERT  SAMAIN 

ALBERT   SAMAIN    (1858-1900) 
Music  on  the  Waters 

OHARK  what  the  symphony  saith. 
Nothing    is    sweet    as    a   death 
Of  music  vague  on  the  breath 
That  a  far,  dim  landscape  is  sighing; 

The  heavy  night  is  drunken, 
Our  heart  that  with  Hving  is  shrunken 
In  effortless  peace  is  sunken, 

And  languorously  dying. 

Between  the  cloud  and  the  tide, 

Under  the  moon  let  us  glide. 

My  soul  flees  the  world  to  hide 
In  thine  eyes  where  languor  is  lying. 

And  I  see  thine  eyeballs  swoon, 
When  the  flute  weds  the  bassoon. 
As  though  to  a  ray  of  the  moon 

Two  ghostly  flowers  were  replying. 

O  list  what  the  symphony  saith, 

Nothing  is  sweet  as  the  death 

Of   lip  to  lip  in  the  breath 
Of  music  vaguely  sighing. 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 

Pannyra  of  the  Golden  Heel 

THE  revel  pauses  and  the  room  is  still : 
The  silver  flute  invites  her  with  a  thrill, 
And,  buried  in  her  great  veils  fold  and  fold. 
Rises  to  dance  Pannyra,  Heel  of  Gold. 
Her  light  steps  cross ;  her  subtle  arm  impels 
The  clinging  drapery;  it  shrinks  and  swells. 


I 


ALBERT  SAMAIN  231 

Hollows  and  floats,  and  bursts  into  a  whirl: 
She  is  a  flower,  a  moth,  a  flaming  girl. 
All  lips  are  silent;  eyes  are  all  trance: 
She  slowly  wakes  the  madness  of  the  dance, 
Windy  and  wild  the  golden  torches  burn; 
She  turns,  and  swifter  yet  she  tries  to  turn, 
Then  stops :  a  sudden  marble  stiff  she  stands. 
The  veil  that  round  her  coiled  its  spiral  bands, 
Checked  in  its  course,  brings  all  its  folds  to  rest, 
And  clinging  to  bright  limb  and  pointed  breast 
Shows,   as   beneath    silk   waters   woven   fine, 
Pannyra  naked  in   a  flash  divine ! 

{James  Elroy  Flecker.) 


Summer  Hours 
I 

PROLONG  our  love's  contents 
With  a  pallid  wine  that  gleams 
Through  glasses  the  colour  of  dreams. 
And  in  exasperated  scents. 

Roses !    O  roses  still ! 

I  love  them  beyond  enduring. 

They  have  the  sombre  alluring 
Of  things  that  we  know  will  kill. 

Now  summer's  gold  turns  to  ashes; 
The  juice  of  the  peaches  you  cull 
The  snow  of  your  bosom  splashes. 

Dark  is  the  park,  without  breath  .  .  . 

And  my  heart  is  aching,  and  full 
Of  a  sweetness  that  sufl'ereth. 


232  ALBERT  SAMAIN 


II 


Moon  of  copper.     Air  sick  with  scent  .  , 
Ab  under  a  dome  lamps  do, 
Stars  burn  through  a  balm  of  blue; 

And  in  velvet  flowers  somnolent 

The  gardens  are  close  as  a  tent 

That  incense  sways  heavily  through. 
And  the  waters  are  languorous  too 

On  the  porph3Ties'  colours  blent. 

No  leaf's  shadow  will  stir  .  .  . 

Only   your   red   lips   burn 
In  the  lifted  torch's  light; 

And  you  seem,  in  the  air  of  the  night, 

As  fatal  and  hard  as  the  urn 
That  seals  a  sepulchre, 

III 

Great  jasmines  opened  wide 
The  dusk  with  odours   out-wear  .  .  , 
As  a  bridegroom  holds  his  bare 

Utterly  fainted  bride. 

The  maddened  moth  has  died 
In  the  torch's  golden  glare. 
In  the  palpitating  air 

Your  eyes   dream,   opened  wide. 

Beloved,   your   eyes   of   green, 

In    the   dusk   the   perfume    exhausts. 

Are  dreaming  of  tortures  dire ; 

And  your  nostrils,  quivering  keen, 
In  tiie  stifling  scents  respire 
Hearts'  bleeding  holocausts. 


ALBERT  SAMAIN  233 

IV 

Flower  petals   fall. 

Dull  flares  the  torch's  mane; 

Mine  eyes  to  weep  were  fain, 
Mine  eyes  possess  thee  all. 

Yielded  beyond   recall, 

Heart,  naught  shall  heal  thee  again, 

O  clay  moulded  into  pain  .  .  . 
Flower  petals  fall. 

The  roses  all  are  dying  ,  .  . 

I  am  saying  nothing,  thou  hearest 

Under  thy  motionless  hair. 

Love  is  heavy.  My  soul  is  sighing  .  .  . 
What  wing  brushes  both  of  us,  dearest. 
In  the  sick  and  soundless  air? 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 

Autumn 

WE  in  the  lonely  walk  by  custom  marred 
Pace  once  again  with  steps  how  burdensome, 
And  by  a  bleeding  autumn  pale  and  numb 
The  opening  of  the  avenue  is  barred. 

As  in  a  hospital  or  prison  yard, 

The  air  is  chastened  with  a  sadness  dumb, 
And  every  golden  leaf,  its  hour  being  come, 

Falls  slowly  like  a  memory  to  the  sward. 

Between  us  Silence  walks.  .  .  .  Our  hearts  do  ail, 
Each  is  out-travelled,  and  its  wasted  sail 
Selfishly  dreams  of  being  homeward  bound 


234,  ALBERT  SAMAIN 

But  on  these  evening  woods  such  sadness  broods, 
Under  the  sleeping  sky  our  heart  its  moods 
Forgets  by  calling  back  the  past  profound, 

With  a  veiled  voice,  as  a  dead  child's  might  sound. 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 


Eventide 

UNTO  the  autumn  evening's  sadness  grave 
The  panting  town  exhales  its  smoke  and  smut 
Brother  of  ease,  the  liver  laves  the  foot 
Of  ancient  towns  with  legendary  wave. 

The  toilers,  that  their  city  labour  leave, 

Make  ring  beneath  their  heels  the  bridge's  stones, 
Whose  soul,  with  centuries  out-wearied,  moans 

In  the  indescribable  lassitude  of  eve. 

An  unseen  hand  has  blessed  the  cloud  ramparts; 

With  less  of   coarseness  eye-lids  are  down- weighted ; 

And,  like  a  captive  long  incarcerated. 
The  soul  an  instant  in  its  prison  starts. 

And  in  soiled  faces  great  eyes  fever-wide. 
And  with  a  plaintive  effort  poor  burnt  eyes 
Drink  thirstily  out  of  the  pensive  skies, 

And  lips  are  now  by  silence  sanctified. 

In  heliotrope,  with   thoughts   her   fingers  hold, 
Revery  in  loosened  girdle  passes  pale. 
And  brushes  spirits  with  her  vaporous  trail. 

To  the  rhythm  of  a  music  known  of  old. 

The  West  spills  roses  on  the  river  wave, 
And  the  wan  emotion  of  the  evening  dying 
Calls  up  an  evening  park  where  dreameth  lying 

My  youth  already  as  a  widow  grave.  .  .  , 


ALBERT  SAMAIN  235 

I  see  them  all,  the  Beauties  of  the  Past, 

Robed  as  my  credulous  heart  dreamed  long  ago, 
Nymphs  of  the  twilight  hour  they  turn  round  slow, 

Upon  a  distant  landscape  fading  fast. 

Caressing,  light,  as  they  have  ever  been, 
I  see  them  with  the  day's  flight  blend  their  hair. 
And,  flitting  past  me  one  by  one,  lay  bare 

My  heart  upon  an  ancient  mandoline. 

I  listen  .  .  .  and  upon  the  river's  brown, 
Below  each  bridge  that  frowns  like  castle-steep, 
Sail  slow  dream-barks,  in  which  dead  ladies  sleep 

By  night  on   ancient  perfumes   through  the   town.  .  .  . 

(lethro  Bithetl.) 

Sleepless  Night 

TO-NIGHT  there  shall  be  lighted  here  no  tapers. 
But  a  sheaf  of  still  wet  flowers  that  shake  in  frailness 
Shall  light  thy  chamber — where  thy  tender  paleness 
Shall  like  a  dream  be  drowned  in  white  gauze  vapours. 

That  we  may  breathe  a  bliss  without  alloy, 
On  the  sad  piano  where  the  flowers  shake 
Play  thou  a  song  of  angels'  hearts  that  ache. 

And  I  shall  swoon  into  a  tranced  joy. 

So  we  will  love,  mute  and  austere.    Save  this, 
That  sometimes  on  thy  slender  hand  a  kiss 
Shall  be  the  drop  that  overflows  the  urn. 

Sister!    And  in  the  skies  that  o'er  us  bend 
The  chaste  desire  of  passion  taciturn 
Shall  slowly  like  a  silver  star  ascend. 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 


236  ALBERT  SAMAIN 

Your  Memory 

YOUR  memory  is  like  a  book  we  love, 
And  which  our  face  is  ever  bent  above; 
Our  heart  read  into  it  the  nobler  seems, 
And  all  our  soul  is  rich  with  longing  dreams. 

The  impossible  I  covet:  I  would  dare 
Lock  into  verse  the  odour  of  your  hair; 
Chisel  with  goldsmith's  patient  art  the  word 
Trembling  upon  your  lips  and  yet  unheard; 
Prison  these  waves  of  tenderness  that  roll 
"When  your  dear  voice  whips  tempests  in  my  soul; 
And  sing  immortally  the  maddening  billows 
Tossed  in  that  gulf  of  breasts  that  are  my  pillows ; 
Say  in  your  eyes  what  sweets  of  coolness  hide. 
Like  forest  afternoons  of  autumn-tide ; 
Enshrine  the  relic  of  our  dearest  hour; 
And  on  piano-keys  bring  back  to  flower, 
Some  melancholy  eve  when  memories  rise. 
The  sacred  kiss  perfuming  still  your  eyes. 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 


REMY  DE  GOURMONT  (185&-191S) 
Hair 


T 


HERE  is  great  mystery,  Simone, 
In  the  forest  of  your  hair. 


It  smells  of  hay,  and  of  the  stone 

Cattle  have  been  lying  on; 

Of  timber,  and  of  new-baked  bread 

Brought  to  be  one's  breakfast  fare; 

And  of  the  flowers  that  have  grown 

Along  a  wall  abandoned ; 

Of  leather  and  of  winnowed  grain; 


REMY  DE  GOURMONT  237 

Of   briers   and    ivy  washed   by  rain; 

You  smell  of  rushes  and  of  ferns 

Reaped   when    day    to    evening   turns; 

You  smell  of  withering  grasses  red 

Whose  seed  is  under  hedges  shed; 

You  smell  of  nettles  and  of  broom; 

Of  milk,  and  fields  in  clover-bloom; 

You  smell  of  nuts,  and  fruits  that  one 

Gathers  in  the  ripe  season; 

And  of  the  willow  and  the  lime 

Covered  in  their  flowering  time; 

You  smell  of  honey,  of  desire, 

You   smell   of   air   the   noon   makes   shiver; 

You  smell  of  earth  and  of  the  river; 

You  smell  of  love,  you  smell  of  fire. 

There  is  great  mystery,  Simone, 
In  the  forest  of  your  hair. 

(Jethro   Bithell.) 


GUSTAVE  KAHN  (1859-) 
/  Dreamed  of  a  Cruel  had 

I  DREAMED  of  a  cruel  lad 
torturing  a  little  bird  he  had, 
to   feel  its   flanks  palpitate. 

I  dreamed  of  a  world  like  a  mother's  breast 

with  shades  of  siesta  and  slow  wings  fluttering  rest, 

and  alleys  of  white  dreams. 

I  dreamed  as  of  a  sister,  chaste,  serene, 
with  the  only  lips  of  sweetness  that  have  been, 
sister  and  wife  she  seems. 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 


238  GUSTAVE  KAHN 

My  Own 

MY  own  is  beautiful  as  floated  perfume  is — 
The  other  day  she  seemed  an  opening  flower — 
My  own  is  beautiful  as  Angels'   flesh  in  springtime — 
The  other  evening  all  the  sun  was  on  my  heart — 

Save  from  my  own's  lips  there  is  no  caress — 

The  spirit's  parks  are  decked  below  her  lips — 

In  clamour  she  is  the  Temple  and  in  the  crowd  the  verge — ■ 

The  welcoming  of  my  own,  the  happy  season. 

The  other  morning  in  her  sadness  was  the  night  of  winter— 
the  voice  of  my  own,  the  faery  of  sounds — 
For  all  my  life  she  is  an  opening  flower — 
my  own  is  beautiful  as  resurrection  is. 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 

Homage  1 

THY  arms  with  bracelets  I  will  deck, 
and  with  a  string  of  pearls  thy  neck, 
and  with  my  lips  thy  lips. 

My  fever-floods  shall  bear  thy  passion-ships, 

and  I  will  bid  thy  courage  flare,  ^ 

with  all  my  soul  on  flame, 

and  I  will  crown  thy  hair 
with  acclamations  I  will  tear 
from  poets  put  to  shame. 

And  then  thy  pardon  I  will  ask  ^ 

for  having  done  so  ill  my  task  ||| 

of  singing  thy  perfumed  grace, 
and  queenly  beauty  of  thy  face. 

(lethro  Bithell.) 


GUSTAVE  KAHN  239 

The  Three  Girls  on  the  Sea-Shore 

THE  three  girls  on  the  sea-shore 
have  seen  the  Virgin  mother  passing 
along  the  grave   colonnades — 
ah !  whence  came  you  Virgin  mother 

I  was  sitting  at  the  prow 
sailing  through  the  storms  of  waters 
steering   towards    the    colonnade 
whence  your  eyes  look  on  the  sea 

Ah!  Virgin  mother  you  are  alone 
your  white  robe  is  like  a  winding-sheet 
you  have  walked  on  the  waters 
to  come  to  the  colonnade 

I  have  drowned  pilot  and  skipper 
I  have  drowned  the  ship  and  the  sailors 
because  upon  the  storms  upon  the  waters 
they  would  not  believe  in  my  mercy 

Ah!    Virgin  mother  our  dear  smiles 
would  draw  the  cord  tight  round  their  necks 
even  to  the  very  cries  for  mercy 
which  they  would  have  sent  to  the  sky  that  is 
starred  by  your  passage  unto  our  colonnades 

Ah!    others  my  merciful  maids 

have  believed  who  sleep  under  the  waters 

I  have  drowned  pilot  and  skipper 

and  all  alone  I  shall  haunt  the  short  colonnade 

my  white  robe  is  like  a  winding-sheet 

Ah !   let  not   your   smiles   die   alone 

leave  me  all  alone  under  the  colonnade 

(Jethro  Bithell) 


240  JULES  LAFORGUE 

JULES   LAFORGUE   (1860-1887) 
For  the  Book  of  Love 

I    MAY  be  dead  to-morrow,  uncaressed. 
My  lips  have  never  touched  a  woman's,  none 
Has  given  me  in  a  look  her  soul,  not  one 
Has  ever  held  me  swooning  at  her  breast. 

I  have  but  suffered,  for  all  nature,  trees 

Whipped   by  the  winds,  wan   flowers,   the  ashen  sky,         J 

Suffered  with  all  my  nerves,  minutely,  I 
Have  suffered  for  my  soul's  impurities. 

And  I  have  spat  on  love,  and,  mad  with  pride, 
Slaughtered  my  flesh,  and  life's  revenge  I  brave. 
And,  while  the  whole  world  else  was  Instinct's  slave, 

With  bitter  laughter  Instinct  I  defied. 

In  drawing-rooms,  the  theater,  the  church, 
Before  cold  men,  the  greatest,  most  refined, 
And  women  with  eyes  jealous,  proud,  or  kind, 

Whose  tender  souls  no  lust  would  seem  to  smirch, 

I  thought:  This  is  the  end  for  which  they  work. 

Beasts  coupling  with  the  groaning  beasts  they  capture. 

And  all  this  dirt  for  just  three  minutes'  rapture! 
Men,  be  correct!     And  women,  purr  and  smirk! 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 

HENRI  DE  REGNIER  (1864-) 
Night 

AN  odorous  shade  lingers  the  fair  day's  ghost. 
And  the  frail  moon  now  by  no  wind  is  tost. 
And  shadow-laden  scents  of  tree  and  grass 
Build  up  again  a  world  our  eyes  have  lost 


HENRI  DE  REGNIER  241 

Now  all  the  wood  is  but  a  murmured  light 
Where  leaf  on  leaf   falls  softly  from  the  height; 

The  hidden    freshness  of  the   river  seems 
A  breath  that  mingles  with  the  breath  of  night 

And  time  and  shade  and  silence  seem  to  say, 
Close  now  your  eyes  nor  fear  to  die  with  day; 

For  if  the  daylight  win  to  earth  again, 
Will  not  its  beauty  also  find  a  way? 

And  flower  and  stream  and  forest,  will  they  not 
Bring  back  to-morrow,  as  to-day  they  brought, 

This  shadow-hidden  scent — this  odorous  shade? 
Yea,  and  with  more  abiding  memories  fraught. 

(Seumas   O'Sullivan.) 


Je  Ne  Veux  de  Personne  Aupres  de  ma  Tris- 

tesse" 


SAY,  sweet,  my  grief  and  I,  we  may  not  brook 
Even  j'our  light  footfall,  even  your  shy  look. 
Even  your  light  hand  that  touches  carelessly 
The  faded  ribbon  in  the  closed-up  book. 

Let  be;  my  door  is  closed  for  this  one  day, 

Nor  may  morn's  freshness  through  my  window  stray; 

My  heart  is  a  guest-chamber,  and  awaits 

Sorrow,  a  sweet  shy  guest  from  far  away. 

Shyly  it  comes  from  its   far  distant  home, 

O  keep  a  silence  lest  its  voice  be  dumb ; 

For  every  man  that  lives  and  laughs  and  loves 

Must  hear  that  whisper  when  his  hour  has  come. 

(Seumas  O'Sullivan.) 


242  HENRI  DE  REGNIER 

Stanzas 

"J'ai  garde  ce  miroir  oti  vous  Stes  vue." 

I   HAVE  kept  still   untroubled  that  clear  tide 
Deep  wherein  lay 
Your  image  in  its  crystal   unconcealed 
A  Summer's  day. 

For  still  the  sleeping  water,  all  unrest, 

Stirs  faintly  deep; 
As  though  some  dream  of  that  old  loveliness 

Troubled  its  sleep. 

And,  sweet,  my  heart  grown  sad  with  long  desire 

Holds  hidden  too 
A  memory  of  the  swift  and  lovely  grace 

Your  girlhood  knew. 

(Seumas  O'Sullivan.) 

The   Gate   of  the  Armies 

SvVING  out  thy  doors,  high  gate  that  dreadst  not  night, 
Bronze  to  the  left  and  iron  to  the  right. 
Deep  in  a  cistern  has  been  flung  thy  key; 
If   dread  thee  close,   anathema   on  thee; 
And  like  twin  shears  let  thy  twin  portals  cut 
The  hand  fist  through  that  would  thee  falsely  shut 
Again  thy  dusky  vault  hath  heard  resound 
Steps  of  strong  men  who  never  yet  gave  grotmd. 
Marching  with  whom  came  breathless  and  came  bold 
Victory  naked  with  broad  wings  of  gold. 
Her  glaive  to  guide  them  calmly  soars  and  dips; 
Her  kiss  is  life  blood's  purple  on  their  lips. 
From  rose-round  mouths  the  clarions  shake  and  shrill, 
A  brazen  boom  of  bees  that  hunt  to  kill. 
"Drink,  swarm  of  war,  stream  from  your  plated  hives 


HENRI  DE  REGNIER  243 

And  cull  death's   dust  on  flowery-fleshed  fierce  lives, 
So,  when  back  home  to  native  town  ye  march, 
Beneath  those  golden  wings  and  my  black  arch 
May  all  men  watch  my  pavement,  as  each  pace 
Of  your  red   feet  leaves  clear  its   sanguine  trace." 

(James  Elroy  Flecker.) 


FRANCIS  VIELE-GRIFFIN   (1864-) 
Now  the  Sweet  Eves  Are  Withered 

NOW  the   sweet   eves   are   withered   like  the   flowers  of 
October 
—What  should  we  tell  the  willow,  and  the  reeds,  and   the 

lagoons ! — 
My  soul  forever  has  grown  gray  and  sober; 
— What  should  we  tell  the  dunes? 

The  wind  arising  comes  without  a  word  discreetly: 
Fresh  with  j'our  kisses  is   my  brow ; 
The  night — as  mothers  comfort  sweetly — 
Comes  with  a  cradling  kiss  to  greet  me, 
What  should  we  tell  the  willow  now? 


While  the  spring  bloomed  you  were  my  King,  my  Poet, 
You  with  your   sweet  words  were  the  King  of   Hearts; 
But  while  we  two  were  laughing,  did  we  know  it, 
That  both  of  us  were  playing  ancient  parts? 

O  you  and  I,  did  either  of  us  know  it? 

— Now  all  is  gray  where  we  would  go — 

We  with  our  false  and  honied  laughter? 

What  knew  we  of  the  dark  times  coming  after? 

What  did  we  know? 

There  were  old  poems,  doubtless,  singing  to  me; 

To  you,  old  tales  of  fortune  crowning  doles; 

"You  love  me  thenT — /  love  you! — Love  me  truly!" 


244  FRANCIS  VIELE-GRIFFIN 

Were  we  so  young  to  laugh  at  our  own  souls ! 
What  should  we  go  and  say  now  to  the  dunes? 
What  to  the  willow,  to  the  reeds,  lagoons? 
— 'The  moon  is  rising  in  pale  aureoles — 
Our  hearts   forgave,  and  died  like  misty  moons. 

(Jethro  Bithell) 


ALFRED  MORTIER  (1865-) 

/  Ask  You,  Love 

I  ASK  you,  love,  to  understand  but  this. 
For  if  you  knew  how  I  do  love  you,  naught 
Would  shock  you  in  my  infidelities, 
And  you  would  know  the  reverence  of  my  thought. 

These  women  are  not  in  my  heart,  be  sure. 
And  you  unwisely  suffer,   thinking  I 
Prefer  a  passing  drunkenness  to  your 
Reflective  fascination,  subtle,  shy. 

What  if  the  body  sins?  Such  luxury  harms 
The  soul  no  whit.  Despise  the  luring  flower 
Of  carnal  lips.  Although  T  love  your  arms, 
It  is  your  soul  that  holds  me  in  its  power. 

Your  soul,  a  glass  where  candid  pleasures  shine. 
Lute  touched  by  mystery's  seraph  tenderly, 
Cup  of   pure   water   still   refreshing  me. 
When  I  am  sickened  with  corrupted  wine. 

Dismiss  the  common  folly  of  those  wives 
Whose  mediocre  pride  makes  them  enslave 
Their  husbands  in  their  narrow  marriage  gyves, 
In  memory  of  the  maidenhead  they  gave. 

O  you  my  strength  and  weakness,  you  I  hold 
More  dear.  .  .  .  My  love  your  soul  and  body  mixes 
In  a  miraculous  fervour  which  is  bold 
To  change  the  postulate  that  custom  fixes. 


ALFRED  MORTIER  245 

If  I  indeed  loved  but  your  loveliness, 
Then  we  might  tremble  for  our  union  .  .  . 
More  than  unstable  passion,  we  possess 
The  high,  veridical  communion. 

That  of  two  souls,  more  than  a  carnal  bond. 
For  soul  alone  in  hearts  ferments,  sublime 
Folly  that  builds  new  beings  far  beyond 
Ignoble  luxuries  the  sport  of  time. 

Now  do  you  understand  that  my  vain  rut 
Should  leave  you  calm  ?    The  bonds  of  flesh  are  too 
Unstable  to  be  crimes.    If  I  loved  but 
Your  body,  I  shall  not  be  loving  you ! 

(Jethro  Bithell) 

ANDRE  SPIRE   (1868-) 

Lonely 

THEY   pity   me. 
"Look  at  him,  see, 
Taking   his   walking  stick,   and   going  out.     So   lonely. 
He  flees  us.     Look  at  his  strange  eyes. 
Not  even  a  book  does  he  take  with  him.     Only 
His  stick.    What  does  he  mean  to  do? 
Is   he   intent   on   evil?     In    revolt?     Or    fever-sick?" 

Alone,  O  beautiful  white  road, 

Between  your  ditches  full  of  grass  and  flowers, 

Over  your  pebbles  telling  tales  of  old, 

Alone,  O   forest,  with   the  blue  bark  of  your  pines; 

And  with  your  wind  that  parleys  with  your  trees; 

And  with  your  ants  processioning  that  drag 

Bodies  of  little  beetles  on  their  backs. 

Alone,  with  you,  you  sun-drenched  fields, 

All  full  of  cries,  and  noises,  and  heads  raised  alert, 

Alone  with  you,  flies,  merlins,  buzzards,  kites, 

Rocks,  brambles,  sources,  crevices. 

Fogs,  clouds,  mists,  cones,  peaks,  precipices, 

Heat,  odor,  order,  chaos,  and  disorder. 


f 


246  ANDRE  SPIRE 

Among  the  dialogues  your  rival  mouths 

Exchange   for   ever ! 

Alone  with  my  stick,  alone  with  my  fatigue, 

My  dust,  my  throbbing  temples,  and  my  dizziness. 

And  the  proud  sweat  glued  to  my  skin. 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 

Spring 

NOW  hand  in  hand,  you  little  maidens,  walk. 
Pass  in   the   shadow   of   the  crumbling  wall. 
Arch  your  proud  bellies  under  rosy  aprons. 
And  let  your  eyes  so  deeply  lucid  tell 
Your  joy  at  feeling  flowing  into  your  heart 
Another  loving  heart  that  blends  with  yours ; 
You  children  faint  with  being  hand  in  hand. 
Walk  hand  in  hand,  you  languorous  maidens,  walk. 
The  boys  are  turning  round,  and  drinking  in 
Your  sensual  petticoats  that  beat  your  heels. 
And,  while  you  swing  your  interlacing  hands, 
Tell,  with  your  warm  mouths  yearning  each  to  each. 
The  first  books  you  have  read,  and  your  first  kisses. 
Walk  hand  in  hand,  you  maidens,  friend  with  friend. 

Walk  hand  in  hand,  you  lovers  loving  silence. 
Walk  to  the  sun  that  veils  itself  with  willows. 
Trail  your  uneasy  limbs  by  languorous  banks, 
The  stream  is  full  of  dusk,  your  souls  are  heavy. 
You  silent  lovers,  wander  hand  in  hand. 

(leihro  Bithell.) 

To  My  Books 

YOU,  you  have  given  me  my  noblest  pleasures, 
How  many  times  my  lips  have  kissed  you,  when 
I  closed  you,  my  dear  books. 

In  you  they  sleep,  frail  seeds. 
Ready  to  burst  to  life  again, 
The  thrills  of  days  departed. 


ANDRE  SPIRE  247 

Yes!  more  than  my  parents,  much  more  than  my  masters, 

More  than  all  those  I  loved, 

You  taught  me  how  to  see  the  world. 

Had  it  not  been  for  you,  I  should  have  lived 
Sensible  only  to  the  things  men  do. 
Without  you,  I  had  been  a  poor  barbarian, 
Blind    as   a    little    child. 

You  have  dilated  all  my  powers  of  loving, 

Sharpened  my  sadness,  trained  my  doubt. 

By  you,  I  am  no  more  the  being  of  one  moment. 

And  now,  now  I  must  take  you 

Into  the  secretest  room  of  all  the  house. 

And  now  with  great  seals  I  must  seal  your  door; 

For  I  will  be  as  though  you  had  not  been. 

0  yes,  you  books  of  the  past,  now  I  must  hide  you ; 
For  I  should  die  cooped  at  your  side. 

For  you  would  trouble  the  eyes  you  opened  wide. 
And  I  should  feel  you  between  me  and  things. 

Now  I  must  flee  you,  like  a  passioned  mother 

Who  has  given  her  son  the  suck  of  all  her  breast. 

And  who,  in  fear  that  some  day  he  should  cease  to  be  hef 

double, 
Clings  to  him,  crushing  him  to  her  violent  heart. 

Books,  set  me  free!     I  am  going  away  to  life. 

With  open  arms,  bright  eyes,  and  heart  all  new. 

My  senses,  ardent  sons  of  yours,  shall  be  my  only  masters. 

You  shall  be  ouLside  of  me,  I  will  disown  you. 

Sleep,  jealous  brothers,  in  your  sombre  chamber  mewed; 

1  go,  without  regret,  without  one  tear; 
I  go  made  young  by  my  ingratitude, 
Vibrating  like  a  virgin,  gladsome  as  a  god. 

(Jethro  Bit  he'll.) 


248  ANDRE  SPIRE 

Nudities 
The  hair  is  a  nudity. — The  Talmud. 

YOU  said  to  me:    But  I  will  be  your  comrade; 
And  visit  you,  but  never  chafe  your  blood; 
And  we  will  pass  long  evenings  in  your  room; 
Thinking  of  our  brethren  they  are  murdering; 
And  through  the  cruel  universe  we  two 
Will  seek  some  country  which  shall  give  them  rest. 
But  I  shall  never  see  your  eye-balls  burning, 
Nor  on  your  temples  purple  veins  distend, — 
I  am  your  equal,  I  am  not  your  prey. 
For  see !  my  clothes  are  chaste,  and  almost  poor, 
You  see  not  even  the  bottom  of  my  neck. 

But  I  gave  answer:    Woman,  thou  art  naked. 

Fresh  as  a  cup  the  hair  is  on  thy  neck; 

Thy  chignon,  falling  down,  shakes  like  a  breast; 

Thy  headbands  are  as  lustful  as  a  herd  of  goats.  .  .  . 

Shear  thy  hair. 

Woman,  thou  art   naked. 

Thy  naked  hands  rest  on  our  open  book; 

Thy  hands,  the  subtle  ending  of  thy  body. 

Thy  hands  without  a  ring  will  touch  mine  by-and-bye.  .  , 

Mutilate  thy  hands. 

Woman,  thou  art  naked. 

Thy  singing  voice   mounts   from  thy  breast; 

Thy  voice,  thy  breath,  the  very  warmth  of  thy  flesh, 

Spreads  itself  on  my  body  and  penetrates  my  flesh.  .  .  . 

Woman,  tear  out  thy  voice. 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 


FRANCIS  JAMMES  249 

FRANCIS  JAMMES   (1868-) 

Amsterdam 

THE  pointed  houses  lean  so  you  would  swear 
That  they  were  falling.     Tangled  vessel  masts 
Like  leafless  branches  lean  against  the  sky 
Amid  a  mass  of  green,  and  red,  and  rust, 
Red  herrings,  sheepskins,  coal  along  the  quays. 

Robinson  Crusoe  passed  through  Amsterdam, 
(At  least  I  think  he  did),  when  he  returned 
From  the  green  isle  shaded  with  cocoa-trees. 

What  were  the  feelings  of  his  heart  before 
These  heavy  knockers  and  these  mighty  doors!  .  .  . 

Did  he  look  through  the  window-panes  and  watch 
The   clerks    who   write   in   ledgers   all    day   long? 
Did  tears   come  in  his   eyes  when  he  remembered 
His  parrot,  and  the  heavy  parasol 
Which  shaded  him  in  the  sad  and  clement  isle? 

"Glory  to  thee,  good  Lord,"  he  would  exclaim. 
Looking   at   chests   with   tulip-painted   lids. 
But,  saddened  by  the  joy  of  the  return, 
He  must  have  m.ourned  his  kid  left  in  the  vines 
Alone,  and  haply  on  the  island  dead. 

I  have  imagined  this  before  the  shops 
Which  make  you  think  of  Jews  who  handle  scales, 
With  bony  fingers  knotted  with  green  rings. 
See!   Amsterdam  under  a  shroud  of  snow 
Sleeps  in  a  scent  of  fog  and  bitter  coal, 

Last  night  the  white  globes  of  the  lighted  inns. 
Whence  issue  heavy  women's  whistled  calls, 
Were  hanging  down  like  fruits  resembling  gourds. 


250  FRANCIS  JAMMES 

Posters  blue,  red,  and  green  shone  on  their  walls. 
The  bitter  pricking  of  their  sugared  beer 
Rasped  on  my  tongue  and  gave  my  nose  the  itch. 

And  in  the  Jewry  where  detritus  lies, 

You  smell  the  raw,  cold  reek  of  fresh-caught  fish. 

The  slippery  flags  are  strown  with  orange-peel. 

Some  swollen  face  would  open  staring  eyes, 

A  wrangling  arm  m.oved  onions   to  and  fro. 

Rebecca,  from  your  little  tables  you 

Were  selling  sticky  sweets,  a  scanty  show.  .  .  . 

The  sky  seemed  pouring,  like  a  filthy  sea, 

A  tide  of  vapor  into  the  canals. 

Smoke  that  one  does  not  see,  commercial  calm 

Rose  from  the  husked  roofs  and  rich  table-cloths, 

And  from  the  houses'  comfort  India  breathed. 

Fain  had  I  been  one  of  those  merchant  princes. 

Who  sailed  in  olden  days  from  Amsterdam 

To    China,   handing   over   their   estate 

And  home  affairs  to  trusty  mandatories. 

Like  Robinson  before  a  notary 

I  would  have  signed  my  pompous  procuration. 

Then  honesty  had  piled  from  day  to  day 

My  riches  more,  and  flowered  them  like  a  moon-beam 

Upon  my  laden  ships'  imposing  prows. 

And  in  my  house  the  nabobs  of  Bombay 

Would  have  been  tempted  by  my  florid  spouse. 

The  Mogul  would  have  sent  a  gold-ringed  negro 
To  traffic,  with  a  smiling   row   of   teeth. 
Under  his  spreading  parasol.     And  he 
Would  have  enchanted  with  his  savage  tales 
My  eldest  girl,  to  whom  he  would  have  given 
A  robe  of  rubies  cut  by  cunning  slaves. 


FRANCIS  JAMMES  251 

I  should  have  had  my  family  portrayed 

By    some   poor    wretch    whose    paintings    lived   and 

breathed : 
My  plump  and  sumptuous  wife  with  rosy  face, 
My  sons,  whose  beauty  would  have  charmed  the  town, 
My  daughters,  with  their  pure  and  different  grace. 

And  so  to-day,  instead  of  being  myself, 
I  should  have  been  another,  visiting 
A  pompous  mansion  of  old  Amsterdam, 
Launching  my  soul  before  the  plain  devise. 
Under  a  gable:  Here  lived  Francis  Jammes. 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 

Prayer  to  Go  to  Paradise  with  the  Asses 

OGOD,  when  You  send  for  me,  let  it  be 
Upon  some  festal  day  of  dusty  roads. 
I   wish,   as   I   did   ever  here-below 
By  any  road  that  pleases  me,  to  go 
To  Paradise,  where  stars  shine  all  day  long. 
Taking  my  stick  out  on  the  great  highway. 
To  my  dear  friends  the  asses  I  shall  say: 
I  am  Francis  Jammes  going  to  Paradise, 
For  there  is  no  hell  where  the  Lord  God  dwells. 
Come  with  me,  my  sweet  friends  of  azure  skies. 
You  poor,  dear  beasts  who  whisk  off  with  your  ears 
Mosquitoes,   peevish  blows,   and   buzzing  bees   .   .  . 

Let  me  appear  before  You  with  these  beasts, 
Whom  I  so  love  because  they  bow  their  head 
Sweetly,  and  halting  join  their  little  feet 
So  gently  that  it  makes  you  pity  them. 
Let  me  come  followed  by  their  million  ears, 
By  those  that  carried  paniers  on  their  flanks, 
And  those  that  dragged  the  cars  of  acrobats. 
Those  that  had  battered  cans  upon  their  backs. 
She-asses  limping,   full  as  leather-bottles. 


252  FRANCIS  JAMMES 

And  those  too  that  they  breech  because  of  blue 

And  oozing  wounds  round  which  the  stubborn  flies 

Gather  in  swarms.     God,  let  me  come  to  You 

With  all  these  asses  into  Paradise. 

Let  angels  lead  us  where  3'our  rivers  soothe 

Their  tufted  banks,  and  cherries  tremble,  smooth 

As  is  the  laughing  flesh  of  tender  maids. 

And  let  me,  where  Your  perfect  peace  pervades, 

Be  like  Your  asses,  bending  down  above 

The  heavenly   waters   through  eternity, 

To  mirror  their  sweet,  humble  poverty 

In  the  clear  waters  of  eternal  love. 


Love 

LASS,  when  they  talk  of  love,  laugh  in  their  face. 
They  find  not  love  who  seek  it  far  and  wide. 
Man  is  a  cold,  hard  brute.     Your  timid  grace 
Will  leave  his  coarse  desires  unsatisfied. 

He  only  lies.     And  he  will  leave  you  lone 
Upon  your  hearth  with  children  to  look  after, 
And  you  will  feel  so  old  when  he  reels  home, 
To  fill  the  morning  hours  with  obscene  laughter. 

Do  not  believe  there  is  any  love  for  the  winning. 
But  go  to  the  garden  where  the  blue  skies  pour, 
And  watch,  at  the  greenest  rose-tree's  dusky  core. 
The  silver  spider  living  alone,  and  spinning. 

Uethro  Bithell.) 


The  Cricket's  Song 

LAST  night  the  cricket  sang  when  all  was  still. 
I  cannot  tell  you  what  he  sang  about. 
His  singing  m.ade  the   darkness   thicker  still. 
The  sad  flame  of  my  candle  lengthened  out. 


FRANCIS  JAMMES  253 

Well,  in  the  end  I  had  to  go  to  bed, 
Telling  myself  with  heavy  heart  that  I 
Should  ne'er  be  happier  than  in  days  gone  by, 
And  that  this  song  was  I,  and  nothing  else. 

Child,  listen  to  the  cricket's  chirping.     Thou 
Hast  nothing  save  this  song  to  comfort  thee. 
But  understand  how  deep  it  is,  and  how 
It  fills  the  heart's  dark  valley  utterly. 

Man's  pain  grows  still  in  the  night's  silences. 
Only  the  baker-cricket  thrills  thee  through. 
Is  it  a  faint  complaint  to  God?     And  is 
The  cricket's  the  one  voice  God  listens  to? 

Hark  what  he  sings.    He  sings  our  hard-earned  bread. 
And  in  the  bitter  ashes  the  cracked  pot. 
The  dog  asleep.     The  housekeeper  abed. 
Something  sad,  good,  and  pure,  I  know  not  what 

He  says  he  is  my  friend.     He  says,  besides, 
My  farmer  wed  his  bride  the  other  day, 
And  that  the  farm  was  full  of  love,  the  bride's 
Heart  like  a  blossom-scented  cherry-spray. 

He  says  that  to  the  wedding  I  was  fetched, 
And  that  with  solemn  slowness  this  young  pair 
Showed  me  their  room  and  open  bride-bed  where 
The  youngest  sister  of  the  bride  was  stretched. 

The  wedding-guests  have  danced  and  gone  away. 
The  wife  lies  where  her  youngest  sister  lay. 
The  joy  is  simple  in  the  hallowed  bed. 
The  clock  and  cricket  in  the  silence  wed. 

Uethro  Bithell.) 


254  PAUL  FORT 

PAUL  FORT  (1872-) 
A  Ballad  of  the  Season 

THE  sea  is  brown  and  green,  and   silver-flecked, 
And   roars    as   mountain-shadowed    forests    do. 
The  sky's  gray  velvet  in  the  wind  is  checked 
With  pleats  of  pallid  azure  and  deep  blue. 
A  beacon-light  is  virginally  paling 
A  cloud  of   barques  to   all   horizons   sailing, 
And  into  their  black   sails  the  ambushed   squall 
Shoots  silver  arrows  from  his  iron  bow. 

But  when  the  sun  is  hatted  with  the  squall, 

And  blearily  above  the  ocean  leers, 
And   when   the  cliff  casts  down  the   autumn's  pall 

Which,  laughing,  weeping,  to  the  sun  careers. 
Thou,  poet-fisherman,  dost  haste  to  bring 
To  the  earth's  shelter  all  thy  mesh  of  string, 
And  waitest,  dreaming,  for  the  sovran  cloud 
To  draw  the  rainbow  from  its  velvet  shroud. 

Uethro  Bithell) 


A  Ballad  of  the  Night 

THE  maidens  short  of  stature,  brown  of  hands, 
With  sickles  hanging  from  their  arms  like  moons, 
Are  drinking  air  from  night's  star-studded  bowl. 
And   wending  homewards    from   the   woods   at   gloam. 
And  when  one  hums  another's  answer  comes, 
And  others  hum,  the  humming  goes  along  .  .  . 
Can  it  be  death  wafted  on  ancient  song? 
The  flickering  birth  of  some  new,  radiant  song? 

As  might  a  woof  of  mosses  soft  and  dense, 
The  scented   shade  the   deep   path  overbrims, 
And  o'er  bi'own  fields  and  shining  bushes  swims. 
The  shadow  is  like  wadding  under  feet, 


PAUL  FORT  255 

And  souls  uncages  in  deliverance,  whence 

Arises  in  the  air  this  delicate  sound 

Of  souls  that  seek  each  other  all  around, 

And  rob  the  flowers  of  instinct  and  of  sense.  .  .  . 

Less  dense  the  shadow  is  .  .  .  and  now  is  none!   .  .  . 
The  moon's  blue  cheeks  caress  cheeks  brown  with  sun. 
The  teeth  are  silvered  whence  this  humming  comes, 
And  silvered  are  the  sickles  hung  from  arms 
And  all  that  shines,  and  tinkles  sweet,  and  hums. 
It  seems  as  it  might  be  the  delicate  shiver, 
The  tender  rustling  of  the  stars'  blue  river, 
Strayed  from  the  ether  into  this  deep  path, 

Uethro  Bithell.) 

Philomel 

OSING,  in  heart  of  silence  hiding  near, 
Thou  whom  the  roses  bend  their  heads  to  hear! 
In  silence  down  the  moonlight  slides  her  wing: 
Will  no  rose  breathe  while  Philomel  doth  sing? 
No  breath— and  deeper  yet  the  perfume  grows: 
The  voice  of  Philomel  can  slay  a  rose : 
The  song  of  Philomel  on  nights  sirene 
Implores  the  gods  who  roam  in  shades  unseen, 
But  never  calls  the  roses,  whose  perfume 
Deepens  and  deepens,  as  they  wait  their  doom. 
Is  it  not  silence  whose  great  bosom  heaves? 
Listen,  a  rose-tree  drops  her  quiet  leaves. 

Now  silence   flashes  lightning  like  a  storm: 

Now  silence  is  a  cloud,  and  cradled  warm 

By  risings  and  by  fallings  of  the  tune 

That  Philomel  doth  sing,  as  shines  the  moon, 

— A  bird's  or  some  immortal  voice  from  Hell? 

There  is  no  breath  to  die  with,  Philomel ! 

And  yet  the  world  has  changed   without  a  breath. 

The  moon  lies  heavy  on  the  roses'  death, 

And  every  rosebush  droops  its  leafy  crown. 

A  gust  of  roses  has  gone  sweeping  down. 


256  PAUL  FORT 

The  panicked  garden  drives  her  leaves  about: 

The  moon  is  masked :  it  flares  and  flickers  out. 

O  shivering  petals   on  your  lawn  of  fear, 

Turn  down  to  Earth  and  hear  what  you  shall  hear. 

A  beat,  a  beat,  a  beat  beneath  the  ground. 

And  hurrying  beats,  and  one  great  beat  profound. 

A  heart  is  coming  close :  I  have  heard  pass 

The  noise  of  a  great  Heart  upon  the  grass. 

The  petals  reel.    Earth  opens :  from  beneath 

The  ashen  roses  on  their  lawn  of  death, 

Raising  her  peaceful  brow,  the  grand  and  pale 

Demeter  listens  to  the  nightingale. 

(James  Elroy  Flecker.) 


F 


Bell  of  Dawn 

\INT  music  of  a  bell  which  dawn  brings  to  my  ear,  made 
my  heart  young  again  here  at  the  break  of  day. 


Faint  bell-like  music  which  through  dewy  dawn  I  hear  ring- 
ing so  far,  so  near,  changed  all  I  hope  and  fear. 

What,  shall  I  after  this  survive  my  dear-bought  bliss,  music 
by  which  my  soul's  far  youth  recovered  is? 

Chiming   so    far    away,    so    lonely   and    withdrawn,    O    little 
singing  air  in  the  fresh  heart  of  dawn. 

You   flee,   return   and   ring :   seeking  like  love  to   stray,  you 
tremble  in  my  heart  here  at  the  break  of  day. 

Ah,  can  life  ever  be  of  such  serenity,  so  peaceful,  mild  and 
fair  as  is  this  little  air? 

So  simple  yet  so  sweet  as,   over  meadows  borne,  this  little 
tune  that  thrills  all  the  fresh  heart  of  morn? 

(Ludwig  Lewisohn.) 


PAUL  FORT  257 

Pan  and  the  Cherries 

I    RECOGNIZED  him  by  his  skips  and  hops. 
And  by  his  hair  I  knew  that  he  was  Pan. 
Through  sunny  avenues  he  ran, 
And  leapt  for  cherries  to  the  red  tree-tops. 
Upon  his  fleece  were  pearling  water  drops 
Like  little  silver  stars.     How  pure  he  was ! 

And  this  was  when  my  spring  was  arched  with  blue. 

Now,  seeing  a  cherry  of  a  smoother  gloss, 

He  seized  it,  and  bit  the  kernel  from  the  pulp. 

I  watched  him  with  great  joy.  ...  I  came  anigh.  .  .  . 

He  spat  the  kernel  straight  into  my  eye. 
I  ran  to  kill  Pan  with  my  knife ! 
He  stretched  his  arm  out,  swirled — 
And  the  whole  earth  whirled ! 

Let  us  adore  Pan,  god  of  the  world ! 

(Jethro  Bithcll.) 

The  Sailor's  Song 

I  LOVED  the  mother,  and  I  loved  the  daughter.  He  sails 
for  many  a  month,  does  sailor  Jack.  I  loved  the  mother 
when  I  left  her;  I  loved  the  daughter,  too,  when  I  came 
back. 

One  woman  is  as  good  as  any  other !  When  I  set  sail  I 
had  the  bloomin'  blues.  When  I  came  back  we  all  went  on 
the  booze.     The  mother's   dead,   the  daughter   is   a  mother. 

A  sailor  sails  for  months  and  months,  my  dears.  Hello, 
it's  time  this  tar  was  on  the  water.  Now,  mammy,  keep  a 
sharp  eye  on  yer  daughter.  I'm  coming  back  for  her  in 
fifteen  years. 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 


258  CHARLES  GUERIN 

CHARLES  GUERIN  (1873-1907) 

Partings 

O  TRAGIC  hours  when  lovers  leave  each  other! 
Then  every  mistress   feels  herself  a  mother. 
And,  making  of  her  lap  a  chair  of  ease, 
Cradles  us  in  the  hollow  of  her  knees. 
And  turns  aside  her  brimful,  dreaming  eyes, 
And  with  brief  voice  to  our  vain  vows  replies, 
And  hums  a  tune,  and  whispers,  and  at  whiles 
Smooths   with   slow,   gliding  hand   our  hair,   and  smiles 
As  laughs  a  babe  to  angels  over  him. 
In   her  strange   eyes   her   heart's   dark   sorrows   swim; 
Convulsively  her  arms  strain  us  to  her; 
She  moans  and  trembles,  and,  with  sudden  stir, 
Presses  her  lips  upon  our  eyes,  and  bids 
Silence,  and  drinks  our  soul  through  closed  eye-lids. 

Uethro  Bithell.) 

Fain  Vows 

THIS  winter  night  is  odorous  of  spring. 
Dreaming,  my  casement  open  wide  I  fling. 
Upon  a  veil  of  silk  the  wind  seems  flying. 
A  dog  barks,  and  the  scented  pines  are  sighing. 
The  silence  is  an  urn  that  every  noise 
Falls  into.     O  my  heart  yearns  for  the  joys 
Of  those  who  in  this  tender  night-hour  fling 
Their  casements  open  to  this  whiff  of  spring. 
And  gaze  up  to  the  sky,  and,  drinking  space, 
Taste  all  infinit}^  while  they  embrace. 
Their  drunken  souls  soar  to  the  stars  in  flight: 
"How    beautiful,"    they    breathe,    "is    life    to-night!" 
And  the  wind  wafts  caresses  o'er  their  hair. 

Sweet  melancholy  of  a  loving  pair, 
Wherein  the  virgin  whom  her  lover  strains 
Yields  like  a  lily  overwhelmed  with  rains! 


CHARLES  GUERIN  259 

Such   melancholy  I   remember  well 

And  bitterly,  and  the  firm  vows  that  fell 

From  lips  that  sealed  my  own.     With  a  slow  wing 

The  gentle  night  was  o'er  us  hovering. 

My  darling,  you  were  sighing,  tired  I  was. 

And  we  were  silent,  love  spoke  long.     Alas! 

Uethro  Bithell.) 

The  Journey's  End 

AT  the  road's  end 
The  sun  goes  down; 
Give  me  your  hand, 
And  give  me  your  mouth. 

This  spring  is  as  black 
As   a   faithless  heart; 
I  am  thirsty,  give  me 
Your  tears  to  drink. 

O  dusk  from  above! 

The  angelus  rings; 

Give  me  the  love 

That  your  breasts  tremble  with. 

The  road  descends, 
White  ribbon  of  leagues, 
The  last,  long  slope 
Of  the  blue  hills. 

Now  stay,  and  look 
At  yonder  trees. 
And  the  smoking  roofs 
Where  a  village  dreams: 

For  I  will  there 

In  the  porchways  sleep, 

Among  your  hair 

Full  of  withered  leaves. 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 


260  CHARLES  GUERIN 

The  Delicate  Evening 

THE  delicate  evening,  with  its  clear,  blue  mist, 
Dies  like  a  word  of  love  on  summer's  lips, 
Or  like  the  wet,  warm  smile  of  widows,  who 
Dream  in  their  flesh  of  olden  bridal  joys. 
The  city  far  away  has  hushed  its  noise ; 
In  the  grave  garden  where  the  silence  blooms 
The  warm,  nocturnal  wind  discreetly  sprays 
The  fountain   freshness  o'er  the  graveled  ways, 
O'er   which    like    rustling    foliage    dresses    trail; 
The  hum  of  wasps  sounds  low,  and  roses,  shed 
By  thoughtful  fingers,  languorously  spread 
Their  soul  of  honey  stirring  love ;  a  pale. 
Strange  dawn  roves  round  the  confines  of  the  sky, 
And  blends  in  mystic,  immaterial  charm 
The  fleeing  radiance  with  the  starry  dark. 

What  share  in  all  the  suns  to  be  have  I, 

In  love,  youth,  genius,  gold,  and  fiery  strife!  .  .  . 

O  let  m.e  fall  into  a  long  sleep  now, 

Sleep,  with  a  woman's  hands  upon  my  brow: 

And  close  the  window  opened  there  on  life! 

(J e thro  Bithell.) 


CHARLES  VILDRAC  (1882-) 
After  Midnight 

IT  is  at  morning,  twilight  they  expire; 
Death  takes  in  hand,  when  midnight  sounds. 
Millions  of  bodies  in  their  beds, 
And  scarcely  anybody  thinks  of  it.  .  .  . 

0  men  and  women,  you 
About  to  die  at  break  of  day, 

1  see  your  hands'  uneasy  multitude, 
Which  now  the  blood  deserts  for  ever! 


CHARLES  VILDRAC  261 

White  people  in  the  throes  of  death, 
Wrestling  in  all  the  world  to-night. 
And  whom  the  weeping  dawn  will  silence, 
Fearful  I  hear  your  gasping  breath! 

How  many  of  you  there  are  dying! 
How  can  so  many  other  folks  be  lying 
Asleep    upon    the    shore   of    your   death-rattles! 

.  .  .  Here  is  noise  in  the  house; 
I  am  not  the  only  one  who  hears  you: 
Some  one  has   stepped  about  a  room, 
Some  one  has  risen  to  watch  over  you. 

But  no !    It  is  a  little  song  I  hear. 

If   some  one    stepped  about   a  room, 

It  was  to  go  and  rock  a  little  child. 

Who  has  been  born  this  evening  in  the  house. 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 


Commentary 

HERE,  before  me,  the  lamp,  the  paper; 
And  behind  me  this  troubled  day 
Passed  in  myself 
Following  the  hundred  turns  and  twistings  of  my  thoughts. 

Trying  to  justify  our  steps. 

And  then  my  steps, 

Trying  to  find  my  starting-place 

Upon  my  route's  confusing  plan.  .  .  . 

And  now,  before  this  paper, 
And  now,  in  this  my  house, 
I  am  still  in  myself, 
And  stifling  there. 

O  the  great  resonant  roles 

That  all  this  day  I  have  repeated, 


262  CHARLES  VILDRAC 

And  which,  because  I  can  no  more  improve  them, 
Now  I  am  going  to  set  down 
In   my  most  learned   eloquence! 

Ah  my  first  roles,  costumed  in  pride, 

Moulded  in  love  and  bravery, 

How  they  are  wearied  and  humiliated 

In  this  my  "theatre  in  my  arm-chair ;" 

How  they  would  like  to  go  out  just  a  little  into  the  street! 

O  all  of  you  whom  I  resemble. 

Have  you  no  pity  on  us? 

What  pure  poets  we  are: 

In  the  warm  museum  of  our  chamber. 

Our  navel  marks  the  centre, 

And  we  examine  our  own  ashes 

Behind  our  bolts. 

What  pure  poets  we  are, 

O  we  collectors  of  our  fevers. 

Who  "bring  out"  our  copies  of  them, 

And  run,  on  winter  evenings. 

To  listen  to  what  people  say  of  us! 

What  pure  poets,  what  pure  poets  .  .  . 
There  are  mad  oceans  far  away, 
And  mad  skies,  and  mad  sails, 
There  are  mad  vessels  far  away: 
We  talk  of  these  in  the  fine  weather. 
Leaning  at  our  window. 

0  you,  what  men  are  we? 
We  are  attired  in  black, 
We  go  to  our  work. 

And  when  the  weather  is  not  very  certain. 
We  take   our  umbrella. 

1  am  tired  of  interior  movements! 
I  am  tired  of  interior  departures ! 


CHARLES  VILDRAC  3(5« 

And  of  heroism  with  the  strokes  of  a  pen, 
And  of  a  beauty  all  in  formulas. 

I  am  ashamed  of  lying  to  my  work, 

And  that  my  work  should  lie  unto  my  life, 

And  of  being  able  to  accommodate  myself. 

While  burning  aromatics, 

And  of  the  musty  odour  reigning  here.  .  .  . 

Water  stagnating,  in  a  pool's  dark  belly  pent. 

Water  which  greens  at  the  soiled  heart  of  old  fountains, 

Hides  in  its  breast  a  life  intense. 

Quivers  with  being  populous   with  beasts, 

And  with  the  long  and  languid  dream  of  grasses; 

It  feels  the  fermentation  of  the  living  mud 

Whose  rotting  in  slow  bubbles  it  exhales; 

But  it  is  blind  and  does  not  know  the  sky. 
For  death  has  sheeted  it  with  withered  leaves: 
It  cannot  see  save  what  it  harbours; 

But  mute  this  water  is,  and  cannot  sing. 

Nor  laugh  nor  murmur  like  the  sea  and  rivers: 

And  to  itself  can  only  strain  a  long-drawn  echo; 

But  it  is  dead,  and  cannot  roam, 

And  cannot  run  and  leap  and  glitter. 

Caressing  quays  and   boats, 

And  cannot  go  to  the  embrace  of  mills; 

And  cannot  contemplate  save  life  in  its  own  self. 

It  is  inhabited  by  life  and  lives  not. 

Even  as  is  inhabited  by  life  and  lives  not. 

The  inert  life  of  corpses.  .  .  . 

And  I  should  like  to  make  come  out  of  rae, 
To  make  a  poem  with,  my  steps, 
Taking  or  no  my  pen  to  witness, 
Taking  or  no  my  fellow-men  to  witness, 
And  I  should  like  .  .  . 

The  stagnant  water,  too,  would  like.  .    .    . 

(lethro  Bithell) 


264  CHARLES  VILDRAC 

An  Inn 

IT   is  an  inn  there  is 
At  the   cross-roads   of   Chetives-Maisons, 
In  the  land  where  it  is  always  cold. 

Two  naked  highroads   cross. 
They  never  saw  the  garnering  of  harvests, 
They  go  beyond   the    sky-line,   very   far. 
These  are  the  cross-roads  of  Chetives-Maisons. 

There  are  three  cottages, 

In  the  same  corner  cowering,  all  the  three, 

Two  of  them  are  uninhabited. 

The  third   one  is  this  inn  with  heart  so  sad ! 
They  give  you  bitter  cider  and  black  bread. 
Snow  wets  the  weeping  fire,  the  hostess  is 
A   forlorn  woman  with  a  smile  so  sad. 

Only  the  very  thirsty   drink  in  it, 

Only  the  very  weary  there  will  sit. 

And   never   more   than   one   or   two   together. 

And  no  one  needs  to  tell  his  story  there. 

And  he   who  enters  there  with  cnattering  teeth, 

Sits   down  without  a   sound  on  the  bench's  edge. 

Stretches  his  chin  a  little  forward. 

And  lays  his  hands   flat  on  the  table. 

One  cannot  think  that  there  is  flesh 

In  his  stiff,  heavy  clogs ; 

His  sleeves  are  short,  and  show 

His  wrists  whose  bone  makes  a  red  bowl; 

And  he  has  eyes  like  a  beaten  beast's, 

And   obstinately    stares   at   empty   space. 

He  eats  his  bread  with  leisure. 
Because  his  teeth  are  worn; 
He  cannot  drink  with  pleasure, 
Because  his  throat  is  full  of  pain. 


CHARLES  VILDRAC  265 

When  he  has  finished, 
He  hesitates,   then   timidly 
Goes  to   sit,  a  Httle  while, 
At  the  fireside. 

His  cracked  hands  marry 
The  hard  embossments  of  his  knees. 
His  head  inclines  and  drags  his  neck. 
His  eyes  are  ever  scared  at  empty  space. 

His  grief  begins   to   dream.,   to   dream, 
And   weighs   upon  his   nape   and   eye-lashes, 
And  one  by  one  makes  wrinkles  on  his   face, 
While   from  the   fire   comes   delicately   clear 
A  new-born  baby's  weeping,  far  away. 

And  now  a  little  girl  he  had  not  seen, 
Comes  from  the  corner  where  she  sat; 
A  delicate  and  pretty  little  girl. 

She  has   a  woman's   eyes, 

Eyes  widened  suddenly  with  tears. 

And  now   she  comes   anear  him,  very  gently, 

And  comes  to  lean   upon  the  stranger's   hand 

The  tender   flesh  of  her  mouth; 

And  Ufts  to  him  her  tear-filled  eyes, 

And   reaches   him,  with   all   her   delicate  body, 

A  little  flower  of  winter  which  she  has. 

And  now  the  man  sobs,  sobs, 

Holding  in  awkward  hands 

The  little  maiden's  hand  and  flower. 

• 
The    forlorn    woman    with    the    smile    so    sad, 
Who  has  been  dumb  and  watching  this, 
Begins,  as  though  she  dreamed,  to  speak. 
Begins  to  speak  with   far-departed  eyes: 


266  CHARLES  VILDRAC 

"A  man  came  here  who  was  not  one  of  us.  .  .  . 
He  was  not  old  with  poverty  and  pain,  as  we  are. 
He  was  as  sons  of  queens  may  be,  perhaps, 
And  yet  how  like  he  seemed  to  one  of  us ! 
And  no  man  ever  spoke  to  me  as  he  did, 
Although  he  only  asked  to  sit  and  drink; 
He  leaned  his  elbows  on   the  middle  of  the  table, 
And  all  the  time  he  stayed  I  looked  at  him; 

And  when  he  rose,  I  could  not  help  but  cry, 

He  was  so  like  the  one  I  loved  when  I  was  sixteen  years.  .  . 

He  was  opening  the  door, 
To  go  back  into  the  wind, 
But  when  I  told  him  why 
The  tears  were  in  my  eyes. 
He  shut  the  door  again. 

And  all  that  evening,  all  that  night, 

His  eyes  and  voice  caressed  me, 

My  folded  pains,  he  stretched  them  out, 

And  spite  of  his  young  years  and  of  m.y  chilly  bed, 

Spite  of  my  empty  breasts  and  hollow  shoulders, 

He  stayed  a  whole  day  long  to  love  me,  yes,  he  loved  me.  .  . 

And  then  this  little  girl  was  born 

Of  the  alms  of  love  he  gave  me.  .  .  .'' 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 


GEORGES  DUHAMEL  (1884-) 
The  Beggar 

YOU  cannot  gather  up  my  look,  which  flows 
Towards  the  earth,  and  which  you  seek  in  vain; 
Friend,  let  it  weigh  down,  and  yourself  be  silent, 
I  have  no  wish  nor  strength  to  look  at  you. 

You  come  to  me,  as  men  come  near  a  hearth, 
Frightened  by  the  hush  of  your  domain, 


GEORGES  DUHAMEL  26T 

Preyed  on  by  poverty  and  pain  .  .  . 

But,  just  to-day,  I  know  not  what  to  give  you, 

I  surely  cannot  give  you  what  you  ask. 

Then  you  speak,  accuse  j'ourself, 

You  make  your  weakness  more,  you  bare  yourself  before  me, 

Lessen  yourself,  in  hope 

That  I  shall  with  a  word  restore  your  stature, 

Make  you  bound  upwards  to  the  height  you  had, 

Console  j-ou,  and  protest, 

— With  but  one  word,  like  a  caress, 

With  but  one  word,  though  whispered. — 

You  shrink,  you  grovel  on  the  ground. 

You  say  yourself  more  lamentable  than  you  are, 

To  force  me  to  bend  down  and  raise  you  up. 

— One  does  this  for  the  puniest  stranger, 

I  could  not  fail  to  do  it  .  .  .  you  are  sure? — 

.  .  .  You  dig  your  past  up  with  a  pitiless  hand, 
Confessing  wrongs  that  you  have  done  to  me 
Which  I  had  no  idea  you  had  done. 
Denying  with  uneasy,  famting  voice, 
All  your  mind's  best. 

But  vainly  you  are  looking  for  my  eyes  .  .  . 

I  am  tired,  do  you  not  know  it? 

O!  say  no  more!  for  I  would  give  a  day  of  joy 

To  have  the  courage,  friend,  to  throw  to  you 

The  word  which  should  restore  your  strength  and  stature. 

But,   friend,  the  more  your  voice  shakes  and  the  more  you 

lower  yourself, 
The  more  the  wish  of  speaking  to  vou  flees  from  me. 
And  because  you  are  a  man,  because  I  love  you, 
I  long  to  weep  at  all  I  hear  you  say. 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 


268  JULES  ROMAINS 

JULES  ROMAINS  (1885-) 

The  Barracks 

Beings  have  molten  forms  and  lives  together. 

THE  sunshine  cannot  make  the  barracks  glad. 
Its  seeming  happiness  is  real  pain; 
The  building  faces  to  the  East;  anigh 
Its  girdle,  forests,  fields,  and  gardens  lie; 
Then  the  horizon  furbished  by  the  dawn. 

The  whitewashed  parget  walls  seems  to  receive 
Only  the  purest   rays  that  light  contains. 
The  red  tiles  give  the  roof  a  youthful  look, 
The   sanded   court   is   opened   like   a   flower. 

And  yet  the  handsome  building  is  in  pain. 

The  clock  has  just  struck  eight.     This  is  the  hour 

When,  in  the  mighty  cities  far  away, 

A  rustling  of  glad  bodies  fills  the  morn, 

Of  men  that  from  the  girdle  inwards  crowd, 

Scattered  no  more  by  isolatipg  sleep. 

A  fluid  multitude  swells  streets  like  veins, 

And   enters   into  offices   and   works. 

Shop-windows  glass  the  haste  of  passers-by; 

The  omnibuses  grate,  the  chimneys  smoke; 

Men  are  connected  by  chaotic  rhythms, 

Keen  groups  are  born,  and  swarm,  and  are  transformed. 

Awakened  muscles  willingly  are  strong, 

Life  pours  as  from  a  bent,  full  bottle's  neck. 

The  barracks  suffer,  wishing  back  the  night. 
The  soldiers  fain  would  sleep  into  the  dawn, 
To  be  themselves  still  longer  in  the  dark, 
Nestling  their  liberty  in  crinkled  sheets. 


JULES  ROMAINS  269 

The  clarion's  panting  cries  compel  the  barracks 
Once  more  to  don  its  single,  dolorous  soul. 
Giving  to  arms  no  time  to  stretch  themselves, 
To  hearts  no  time  to  glide  out  of  their  dreams. 
The    barracks   sets  its   forces  galloping, 
And  whips  at  sluggish  flanks  that  hate  the  lash. 
Rest,  silence,  and  the  friendship  of  the  dark. 
Are  with  a  single  impulse  thrust  outside, 
For  these  impurities  would  weigh  down  limbs 
Which  may  not  have,  until  the  day  is  done. 
One  nerve  inactive  nor  one  muscle  lax. 
The  barracks  hurries,  but  the  hours  are  sacks 
Too  narrow,  from  too  supple  leather  cut 
To  hold  the  heap  of  movements  and  of  acts 
With  which  it  seeks  to  stufif  them,  out  of  breath. 

Behind  the  walls 

The  vegetating  fields  lie  pensively. 

The  plants,  sure  they  have  time,  by  slow  degrees 

Work  out  their  shape,  and  in  themselves  unite 

The  joy  of  being  spreading  like  a  lake, 

The  joy  of  growing  flowing  like  a  river. 

And  every  time  the  barracks  gazes  thither. 

It  bustles  less  and  feels  it  is  in  pain. 

Bent  soldiers  scrub  the  wooden  floors  of  rooms; 

Their  backs  will  have  lumbago,  arms  the  cramp. 

One  was  a  farm-hand,  and  remembers  now 

The  music  of  the  scythe  in  grass  of  June. 

This  fair-haired  fellow,  panting  down  the  stairs, 

Is  thinking  of  a  little  Town-Hall  office 

With  windows  o'er  a  yellow,  dozing  square; 

He  used  to  sit  in  a  cane-bottomed  chair. 

With  glossy  paper  round  his  pen,  that  threw 

Upon  the  left  a  fibre  of  blue  shadow. 

Mud  clots  the  corridors,  for  yesterday 

Was  rainy;  those  who  sweep  are  wearied  out; 

Others  that  on  the  stairheads  squat  or  stand 

Are  scraping  boots  while  sweat  is  on  their  brows. 


270  JULES  ROMAINS 

The  traveller  who  dimbs  a  wooden  hill, 
And,  with  his  foot  upon  the  highest  stone, 
Upon   it   pedestals   his   lonely   frame, 
To  see  the  forest  and  to  breathe  its  breath, 
Resumes,  for  one  grave  second,  in  himself 
The  sap,  the  sprouting,  and  the  scent  of  trees; 
And  if,  in  all  the  underwood,  one  twig 
Rises  above  its  clog  and  sharply  cracks; 
If  strawberries  ripen,  sheltered  by  a  bush. 
One  whiff  of  odour,  and  one  flake  of  sound 
Lost  in  the  smell  and  rustling  of  the  trees, 
Run  to  the  traveller's  wide-opened  brain 
Wherein  collected  all  the  forest  thinks. 

Thus  raised  more  high  than  any  peak  of  souls. 

With  effort  freed  from  the  entanglement 

Wherein   its  branching  passions  cross  and  toss, 

And  covered  with  unconsciousness,  this  dew 

Which  dropped  above  the  barracks  when  it  passed 

The  dark,  dense  flesh  that  does  not  know  itself. 

Already  vast  but  undecided  still, 

The  conscience  of  the  barracks, 

From  hearts  dissimulated  among  things 

Receives  the  feeble  breath  their  essence  scents, 

And  bids  the  little  griefs  sent  up  by  men 

Be  seated  in  a  corner  of  its  grief. 

That  they  may  say  in  two  words  what  they  are, 

And  what  complaints  they  bear. 

This  conscience  probes  the  tender  epidermis. 
Yea,  and  the  final  folds  of  human  matter. 
Even  as  a  hand  that  warms  and  fills  a  glove. 
And,  timidly,  in  places,  sees  the  chiefs 
Like  scattered  seeds  of  lead  within  itself. 

And  then  it  hears  no  longer  little  griefs. 

A  great  wind  drowns  their  wearisome  falsetto; 

The  ardent  sex  of  men  begins  to  cry; 

Desires  of  males  in  cage  calls  out  for  females; 


JULES  ROMAINS  271 

The  soldiers  sing,  roar,  jostle,  violate 

The  air.     Their  arms  seek  softer  arms  to  knead. 

Furious  at  having  nothing  to  embrace 

Save  other  stiffened  arms  that  do  not  yield, 

Furious  at  never  finding  anywhere 

The  soft  white  bodies  that  are  needed  for 

The  barracks  to  be   soothed   and  have   its   flesh 

In  couples  equilibrated,  they  kindle 

A  fire  of  frenzied  gestures,  and  their  kisses. 

Waste  cartridges  cast  in  the  flame,  explode. 

And  now  a  locomotive  far  away 

Buries  a  whistle  in  the  womb  of  space. 

It  is  rebellion's  signal ;  the  clear  order 

The  strength  of  trains  darts  unto  men's,  that  they 

May   break   the   threads    which    make   them   gravitate 

Round  the  same  motionless   and   hated  centre. 

And  from  this  turning  sling  escape,  and  pierce 

Their  duty  like  the  paper  in  a  hoop, 

And  the  vast  soaring  rolled  in  them  unfold, 

And  go  away, 

And  o'er  the  horizon  find  their  own  horizon. 

Fain  were  the  barracks  to  dissolve  and  die. 

There  is  a  breath  glides  through  the  soldiers'  bodies, 

Moving,  disjoining,  elevating  them. 

The  enormous  block  seems  porous.     All  its  lives 

From  one  another's  hold  tear  to  depart. 

It  was  a  serried  fleet  of  sailing-ships ; 

But  the  wind  whips  them  and  the  masts  have  cracked, 

The  ships  are  scattered  broadcast  on  the  sea. 

O  to  set  out !     The  soldiers  stamp  to  go. 
Their  hope,  tiptoe  with  expectation,  tries 
To   see  beforehand   the   miraculous   hour 
When  ail  compulsion  shall  be  reaped  like  hay. 
And  rude  hands  weigh  the  future,  feel  the  months. 
And  count  the  days.     And  on  partitions  they 
In  trembling  numbers  carve  how  many  more. 


272  JULES  ROMAINS 

By  all  its  men  the  barracks  fain  would  die. 

O  this  were  death  delicious  as  pure  water. 
If  one  could  be  dissolved,  and  pulverised, 
And  hurled  in  ruins  by  self-hate,  without 
One  atom  weeping  the  dead  unity, 
And  not  one  being  clinging  to  the  warmth 
Of  living  in  the  rhythm  of  the  whole, 
Without  the  unity  bewailing  its  conscience, 
O  beautiful  death! 

But  not  in  this  way  shall  the  barracks  die. 
First  in  its  leaded  coffin  it  must  live. 
The  State  decrees  it  must  exist,  endure! 
Feeds  it  with  dole  of  food  from  day  to  day. 
And  fills  it  yearly  with  new  sap  of  youth. 

Then,  one  morning,  war. 

The  barracks,  that  knows   nothing, 

Shall  nothing  know.     It  will  be  told 

To  glide  out  of  its  walls, 

To   march,   to   follow  a   road. 

To  get  inside  a  black  train. 

And  later,  not  much  later, 

Not  knowing  where  the  carriages 

Have  taken  it  to; 

Knowing  nothing  of  all,  except 

That  it  must  kill ; 

Lying  flat  on  its  belly, 

Leaping  like  a  grasshopper, 

Wishing  to  live  now  with  a  frenzied  wish, 

In  mud,  and  smoke,  and  din, 

Bleeding,  raging,  thinned, 

It  will  go  and  will  be  killed 

By  canons.' 

And  this  presentiment  makes  weapons  shine; 
It  spreads  a  gloss  of  phosphorus  over  them; 
The  muskets  reared  in  line  shine  with  it  so 


JULES  ROMAINS  273 

The  soldiers  have  not  for  them  that  kind  look 

With  which  you  soothe  the  back  of  things  familiar, 

But  cast  them  glances  grating  on  the  steel. 

The  barracks  sees  that  it  is  filled  choke-full 

Of  muskets,  bayonets,  and  cartridges. 

There  are  erected  muskets  in  the  racks, 

And  in  the  cellars  and  the  garrets  too. 

And  this  swarms  germinating  in  the  barracks; 

This  is  the  seed!     The  barracks  knows  her  sex. 

She  is  prolific.    And  she  carries,  like 

A   heavy   ovary   which   throbs    and    swells. 

Millions  of   future  deaths  within  her  womb. 

The  trains  may  whistle.    What  if  she  forget! 
She  has  her  flesh  and  her  fatality. 
Fated  she  is  to  kill  and  to  be  killed. 

(lethro  Bithell.) 


The  Church 

The  self-deceit  of  having  wrought  the  light. 

EOPLE  arrive  to  worship  in  their  church. 


P 


Though  it  is  getting  tired  and  insecure, 
The  monument  can  make  a  gathering  yet 
With  people  poured  into  it  by  the  roads. 
It  sifts  them  as  they  enter  through  its  porch, 
And  gently  it  removes  from  each  the  thoughts 
Which  might  not  melt  so  well  as  all  the  rest. 
Replacing  them  by   others   left  behind 
By  those  who  came  to  Mass  in  days  of  old. 

The    crowd    which   tramples    on    the    flags    outside 
Bears   nosegays   of   ideas  new   and  bright; 
The  fresh  dreams  of  to-day  spread  over  them, 
Rosy  and  blue  as  sunshades  which  in  their 
Own  manner  dye  the  radiance  of  the  sky. 


274.  JULES  ROMAINS 

Inside  there  are   no  nosegays  and  no  sunshades. 

The  naves  and  aisles  are  overflowing  w^ith 
A  crowd  the  pillars  intimately  know, 
Their  contact  is  as  ancient  as  the  church, 
And  every  summer  Sunday  when  the  sun 
Begins  to  lick  the  windows  by  one  edge, 
And  in  the  winter  of  discoloured  lamps, 
For  centuries  this  crowd  has  been  reborn 
On  every  following  Sunday  still  the  same. 

Women  and  men  are  entering  in  file. 

The  crowd  is  borne  in  haste  by  all  the  doors, 
Rumbling  an  instant,  ordered,  then  appeased; 
It  has  not  changed  its  shape;  it  is  already 
Moulded   unto   the   contours   of   the   walls; 
Faithfully  bodies  lean  on  the  same  chairs. 
Now  it  is  born  again  while  ring  the  bells. 

But  the  dark  power 
That  gives  it  life 
On   the    seventh   daj 
Of  every  week, 
Softens  at  last 
Like  an  old  spring. 
Little  by  little 
Born  less  far 
From  death. 

It  is  a  group 
Worn  out  with  use 
Whose  flesh  grows  flabby. 
And  in  the  winter 
It  is  cold 
Under  the  roof. 
In  olden  days. 
In  the  city 

It  was  the  greatest  of  unanimous  beings, 
And  all  the  city  was  transfused  in  it. 


JULES  ROMAINS  275 

But  now  the  worshops  have  arisen. 
The  workshops  full  of  youth ! 

They  live  in   ardour. 
Their  smoke  soars  higher  than  the  sound  of  bells. 
They  do  not  fear  to  hide  the  sun, 
For  their  machines  make  sunshine. 

Like  a  dog  that  comes  out  of  a  pool  and  sneezes, 
The  workshop  shivering  scatters  round  it  drops 
Of  energy  that  wake  the  town  to  life. 

But  the  senile  group 

Sprouts  not  with  bristling 

Wires  and  cables. 

No  electricity 

Rustles  from  it 

To  countless  houses. 

It  is  feeble, 

Its  chinks  are  stopped. 

It  is  gathered  in. 

But  it  preserves  with  pride  its  fixed  idea: 
Others  may  swell  with  sap  and  ramify ; 
And  shadow  with  a  foliage  of  green  forces 

All  the  massed  houses ; 
The  humble  group  would  tenderly,  heart  to  heart, 
Speak  to  the  infinite  group  benevolent  words. 
For  it  is  sure  a  soul  stands  o'er  the  world. 

It  knows  God's  finger  painlessly  from  Heaven 
Leads  the  leash  of  natural  forces ; 
That  God  sees  all,  and  that  His  tender  eyes 
Wrap  up  the  form  and  penetrate  the  essence 
Of  things. 

The  group  is  sure  of  it. 

But  fears 
Lest  having  to  keep  watch  o'er  all  these  minds 
And  bodies,  all  these  angels,  beasts,  and  deaths, 


276  JULES  ROMAINS 

Ant-hills,  cities,  forests, 

Planets  and  planetary  systems, 

God  see  no  more  the  little  auditory 

Which  listens  to  the  Mass  in  pillared  shade. 

It  calls  Him ;  makes  to  Him  the  holy  signs. 
In  olden  days  God  taught  His  creatures  words 
Which  force  Him  to  give  heed  and  to  vouchsafe. 

The  group  that  mumbles  them  knows  not  their  meaning, 
But  knows  the  priest  before  the  altar  knows: 
The  illuminated  summit  of  the  group. 

Upon  the  murmurs  serving  it  as  rollers 
Slowly   the    common    thought    advances,    like 
A  boat  that  fishers  launch  into  the  sea; 

And  onward  floats  the  thought  to  God. 

From  hearts  the  fervour  passes  to  the  walls, 

The  rising  fluid  magnetizes 

The  steeple,  and  the  steeple  brings  down  God. 

God  approaches,  God  descends ; 
He  is  quite  near ;  the  air 
Weighs  heavier. 
Something  compresses,  heats  it; 
The  choir  is  filled  with  incense 
So  that,  arriving,  God 
Shall  find  here  clouds 
Like    those    He    dwells    in, 
And  feel  less  strange. 

He  is  quite  near,  quite  near.     You  can  whisper  to  Him, 
Tell  Him  what  you  would  dare  tell  no  man,  ask  Him 
For  anything  you  like.     And  even  if  God 
Refuse,  He  is  so  good  you  cannot  vex  Him. 

"O  God  in  Heaven,  vouchsafe  to  cure  my  leg! 
Matter  burst  from  it  yesterday. — My  God, 


JULES  ROMAINS  277 

Vouchsafe  to  fill  my  shop  with  customers! 

— Help  me  to  find  out  if  my  servant  John 

Is  robbing  me! — O  God,  cure  my  sore  eyes! 

— Save  me,  my  God,  from  getting  drunk  so  often! 

— Lord,  let  my   son  pass  his  examination! 

He  is  so  shy.    Thou  shalt  have  a  great  big  candle. 

— Help  me  to  make  her  fall  in  love  with  me, 

I  will  put  ninepence  in  St.  Anthony's  box. 

— My  God!  if  only  I  could  get  some  work! 

— He  makes  a  martyr  of  me.     Let  him  die! 

—My  God,  my  God,  I  am  certain  I  am  pregnant; 

O  let  the  child  go  rotten  in  my  belly." 

It  is  like  a  hamlet  at  the  hour  of  noon. 
On  every  soul's  hearth  they  have  kindled  fire, 
Which  casts  its  smoke  and  yields  it  to  the  wind. 
God  sees  the  bluish  prayers  climb  up  to  Him. 

They  are  a  perfume  which  delight  Him.     He 
Comes  nearer.     The  crowd  rises,  touches  Him. 
Their  longing  to  caress   serves  them   for   arm. 
They  seize  on  God  to  press  Him  close  to  them ; 
To  be  alone  and  to  possess  Him  all. 

This  morning,  God,  the  conscience  of  the  universe. 

Has  from  the  universe  withdrawn,  like  blood 

Out  of  a  bull's  limbs  bleeding  at  the  head. 

All  the  world's  soul,  the  whole  of  God  is  here; 

The  church  is  the  glad  vase  that  gathers  Him. 

God  now  can  think  but  of  the  little  crowd; 

The  things  they  wish  He  too  must  wish,  since  He 

In  them  is  incarnated  and  their  breath. 

Then  in  the  mystical   certitude; 

Drunk  with  alcohol 

Hid  in   the  organ   notes, 

The  light  of  the  rose-window, 

And  the  stained  glass; 


278  JULES  ROMAINS 

Clad  with  incense  like 

A  scented  sleep  that  bends  and  swoons; 

By  old,  magnetic  rites 

Plunged  in  hypnotic  sleep 

Whence  mount,  like  bubbles 

Crossing  stagnant  waters, 

Memories  and  mouldiness 

And  age-old  madness; 

Forgetting  that  beyond  these  walls 

There  is  the  town,  and  earth, 

And  then  infinity; 

The  group   so  old,   so  little, 

Which  withers,  which  is  scarce  alive, 

Dreams  aloud  that  it  is  God. 

(Jethro  Bithell.) 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


A  fount  there  is,  doth  overfling,  3 

A  frail  hand  in  the  rose-gray  evening,  2x3 

A  hundred  mares,  all  white!     Their  manes,  178 

A  lily's  fragrance  rare,  an  aureole's  pale  splendor,  131 

A  silver-vested   monkey  trips,  201 

A  sweet  "No!  No!"  with  a  sweet  smile  beneath,  63 

A  white  nymph  wandering  in  the  woods  by  night,  95 

Again  I   see  you,  ah,  my  queen,    145 

Ah,  take  these  lips  away,  no  more,  71 

Alas,  poor  heart,  I  pity  thee,  28 

Albeit  the  Venice  girls  get  praise,  55 

All  beneath  the  wliite-rose  tree,  33 

All  things  are  doubly  fair,  147 

An  aged  faun  of  old  red  clay,  206 

An  Angel  swoops,  like  eagle  on  his  prey,  168 

An  odorous  shade  lingers  the   fair  day's  ghost,  339 

And  lightly,   like  the  flowers,  74 

And  Paris  be  it  or  Helen  dying,  54 

April,  pride  of  woodland  ways,  82 

Around  were  all  the  roses  red,  192 

As  in  some  stagnant  pool  by  forest-side,  140 

As  in  the  age  of  shepherd  king  and  queen,  197 

As  in  the  gardens,  all  through  May,  the  rose,  73 

At  daybreak,  when  the  falcon  claps  his  wings,  56 

At  dead  of  unseen  night  ghosts  of  the  departing  assembling, 

267 
At  the  road's  end,  258 

By  favorable  breezes  fanned,   197 
Brothers  and  men  that  shall  after  us  be,  42 
Be  still,  my  sorrow,  and  be  strong  to  bear,  168 
Beauty,  that  mak'st  the  body  like  a  fane,  i8i2 
Before  my  lady's  window  gay,  26 
Behold,  the  meads  are  green  again,  i 
Beneath  the  branch  of  the  green  may,  30 
Beware,  my  friend,  of  pretty  girls,  138 

Calm  is  the  sea-scape,  gray,  immense,   157 
Calm  where  twilight  leaves  have  stilled,  208 

279 


280  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Can  it  be  true  that  I've  so  much  endured  whilere,  86 
Child !  if  I  were  a  king,  my  throne  I  would  surrender,  132 

Dance  the  jig!  216 

Death,  of  thee  do  I  make  my  moan,  48 

Deep  in  the  tortuous  folds  of  ancient  towns,  162 

Drink,  gossips  mine !  we  drink  no  wine,  32 

Each  shell  encrusted  in  the  grot,  202 

Evening !     A  flight  of  pigeons  in  clear  sky,  189 

Every  man  has  his  sorrows;  yet  each  still,  94 

Faint  music  of  a  bell  which  dawn  brings  to  my  ear,  255 

Fair  flower  of  fifteen  springs,  that  still,  70 

Fair  is  her  body,  bright  her  eye,  25 

Fairer  is  the  sea,  222 

Far  from  your  side  removed  by  thankless  cares,  206 

For  many  a  year  his  glory,  100 

Go,  and  with  never  a  care,  218 

God,  that  mad'st  her  well  regard  her,  20 

Good-by,  the  years  are  in  my  eyes,  43 

Hah,  spite  of  fate  that  says  us  nay,  196 

Hast  thou  not  here  to-day  a  lovelier  doom,  190 

Hath  any  loved  you  well,  down  there,  6 

Have  pity,  pity,  friends,  have  pity  on  me,  60 

Have  you  sometimes,  calm,  silent,  let  your  tread  aspirant  rise, 

121 
He  said  unto  the  Lord,  "Shall  I  ne'er  be  done?   112 
Her  throne  is  the  meadow,  the  field  and  the  plain,  135 
Here,  before  me,  the  lamp,  the  paper,  260 
Here  is  a  woman,  richly  and  fair,  164 
Hide  this  one  night  thy  crescent,  kindly  moon,  70 
High  heels  and  long  skirts  intercepting  them,  201 

I  am  as  lovely  as  a  dream  in  stone,  165 

I  am  that  dark,  that  disinherited,  144 

I  am  weary  of  lying  within  the  chase,  22 

I  ask  you,  love,  to  understand  but  this,  243 

I  divine,  through  the  veil  of  a  murmuring,  213 

I  dreamed  of  a  cruel  lad,  236 

I  found  at  daybreak  yester  morn,  26 

I  have  a  tree,  a  graft  of  love,  43 

I  have  kept  still  untroubled  that  clear  tide,  241 

I  know  not  why  my  soul.  Lord,  in  these  dreams  persists,  127 

I  laved  my  hands,  40 

I  love  the  evenings,  passionless  and  fair,  I  love  the  evens.  119 

I  loved  the  mother  and  I  loved  the  daughter,  256 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  281 

I  may  be  dead  to-morrow,  uncaressed,  239 

I  met  her  one  day  in  the  harvest  of  vines,  184 

I  recognized  him  by  his  skips  and  hops,  256 

I  said  to  the  ringdove  that  fluttered  above  me,  190 

I  saw  a  wolfe  under  a  rookie  cave,  78 

I  saw  raysde  up  on  yvorie  pillowes  tall,  •]'7 

I  send  you  here  a  wreath  of  blossoms  blown,  69 

I  unto  my  father's  garth,  where  all  tlowers  live  again,  104 

If  in  me,  my  lady,  traces,  89 

If  there  be  a  fair  demesne,  132 

If  this  our  little  life  is  but  a  day,  80 

I'm  like  some  king  in  whose  corrupted  veins,  159 

In  summer  evenings  blue,  pricked  by  the  wheat,  228 

In  summer  time,  when  day  hath  fled,  with  blossoms  crowned, 

125 
In  this  merry  morn  of  May,  27 
Inside  my  father's  close,  41 
Into  the  autumn  evening's  sadness  grave,  233 
Into  the  lonely  park  all  frozen  fast,  191 
It  is  an  inn  there  is,  263 
It  is  at  morning,  twilight  they  expire,  259 
It  was  a  mother  and  a  maid,  37 
It  was  the  time,  when  rest,  soft  sliding  downe,  "j^ 
I've  kissed  thee,  sweetheart,  in  a  dream,  at  least,  88 
I've  meditated.  Lord,  in  the  nocturnal  hours,  126 

John  of  Tours  is  back  with  peace,  20 

King  Louis  on  his  bridge  is  he,  36 
Kiss  me,  then,  my  merry  May,  25 

Lady  of  Heaven  and  Earth,  and  therewithal,  48 

Lass,  when  they  talk  of  love,  laugh  in  their  face,  251 

Last  night  the  cricket  sang  when  all  was  still,  251 

Let  there  be  laid,  when  I  am  dead,  149 

Let  thy  tears,  Le  Vayer,  let  them  tlow,  92 

Little  lady  mouse,  223 

Lived  have  I  and  am  dead.     Inert  and  open-eyed,  156 

Long  as  I  still  can  shed  tears  from  mine  eyes,  81 

Lost  is  my  strength,  my  mirth,  the  joy  intense,  146 

Louise,  have  you  forgotten  yet,  173 

Love,  like  a  panic,  139 

Love,  love,  what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart  of  mine?  14 

Love's  worshipers  alone  can  know,  91 

Maid  Marjory  sits  at  the  castle  gate,  31 
May  he  fall  in  with  beasts  that  scatter  fire,  57 
Men,  brother  men,  that  after  us  yet  live,  61 
Meseemeth  I  heard  cry  and  groan,  49 


282  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Misfortune  'tis  to  love  at  all,  86 

Morning  glances  hither,  140 

Mother  of  Memories,  mistress  of  mistresses,  158 

Music  first  and  foremost  of  all!  217 

My  hair,  that  time  turns  white,  and  withering  mocks,  IIO 

My  heart,  in  which  even  hope  has  ceased  to  live,  107 

My  lady  woke  upon  a  morning  fair,  'j2 

My  love  for  him  shall  be,  29 

My  own  is  beautiful  as  floated  perfume  is,  237 

My  soul,  calm  sister,  toward  thy  brow,  whereon  scarce  grieves, 

188 
My  wish  would  be  .  .  .  where  uplands  gleam,  185 
Mystical  strains  unheard,  194 

Nature  withheld  Cassandra  in  the  skies,  68 

Nay,  sweet,  my  grief  and  I,  we  may  not  brook,  240 

Night  in  the  bloodstained  snow :  the  wind  is  chill,  153 

Nightly  tormented  by  returning  doubt,  183 

No,  I  am  not,  as  others  are,  45 

No  marvel  is  it  if  I  sing,  5 

No  verse  I  know,  save  one,  of  Wordsworth's  art,  152 

Now  hand  in  hand,  you  little  maidens  walk,  245 

Now  take  your  fill  of  love  and  glee,  52 

Now  the  sweet  eves  are  withered  like  the  flowers  of  Octobef, 

242 
Now  who  is  he  on  earth  that  lives,  28 

O  God,  when  You  send  for  me,  let  it  be,  250 

O  grandest  of  the  angels,  and  most  wise,  169 

O  hark  what  the  symphony  saith,  229 

O  Love,  my  love,  and  perfect  bliss,  27 

O  my  God,  thou  hast  wounded  me  with  love,  219 

O  night  there  shall  be  lighted  here  no  tapers,  234 

O  nightingale  of  woodland  gay,  31 

O  sad,  sad  was  my  soul,  alas !  214 

O  sing,  in  heart  of  silence  hiding  near,  254 

O  swarming  city,  city  full  of  dreams,  166 

O  thou  newcomer  who  seek'st  Rome  in  Rome,  80 

O  tragic  hours  when  lovers  leave  each  other,  257 

O  woman!  why  these  tears  that  dim  your  sight,  133 

Off  with  sleep,  love,  up  from  bed,  67 

Oh !  did  you  know  how  the  tears  apace,  180 

Oh,  might  I  for  three  years  but  have  my  table  spread,  143 

On  high  hills'  top  I  saw  a  stately  frame,  76 

Pale  dawn  delicately,  209 

People  arrived  to  worship  in  their  church,  273 

Pierrot,  no  sentimental  swain,  196 

Prolong  our  love's  contents,  230 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  283 

Robed  in  a  silken  robe  that  shines  and  shakes,  i6l 

Sad,  lost  in  thought,  and  mute  I  go,  25 

Scaramouche  waves  a  threatening  hand,  195 

See!  brothers,  weak  and  weary  have  I  striven,  225 

See,  Mignon,  hath  not  the  rose,  69 

See,  on  the  violet  tops,  176 

Seven  stars  in  the  still  water,  24 

She  whom  I  love  so  dear,  in  dreams,  unto  my  bed,  87 

Shut  is  thy  door  and  yet  day  breaks,  124 

Since,  far  away  from  towns  and  from  the  human  race,  65 

Since  I  have  set  my  lips  to  your  full  cup,  my  sweet,  129 

Since  the  primeval  day,  when  first  from  seed  it  grew,  154 

Sing,  magnarello,  merrily,   180 

Slumber  dark  and  deep,  221 

So  long  you  wandered  on  the  dusky  plain,  79 

Spaniards  took  me  on  friendly  deck,  103 

Stay,  let  me  die,  since  I  am  true,  200 

Still  tow'rd  new  shores  we  wend  our  unreturning  way,   105 

Strengthen,  my  love,  this  castle  of  my  heart,  18 

Suppose  you  screeve?  or  go  cheap-jack?  46 

Sweet  flower,  that  art  so  fair  and  gay,  29 

Sweet  mother,  in  a  minute's  span,  267 

Sweetheart,  thy  beauty's  on  the  wane,  66 

Swing  out  thy  doors,  high  gate  that  dreadst  not  night.  241 

Take  heed  of  this  small  child  of  earth,  130 

Tears  fall  within  mine  heart,  191  _ 

Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is,  47 

The  Abbe  wanders.— Marquis  now,  199 

The  ancient  Homer  I  admire,  93 

The  archbishop,  whom  God  loved  in  high  degree,  2 

The  body's  sadness  and  the  langor  thereof,  221 

The  hordes  were  spred  in  right  little  space,  14 

The  dance  is  on  the  Bridge  of  Death,  35 

The  dawn  is  smiling  on  the  dew  that  covers,  128 

The  delicate  evening,  with  its  clear  blue  mist,  259 

The  dream  of  one  is  to  have  wings  and  follow,  227 

The  evening  brings  the  silence  back,  no 

The  fireside,  the  lamp's  little  narrow  light,  212 

The  flesh  is  sad,  alas,  and  all  the  books  are  read,  188 

The  foolish  Leander,  207 

The  God  whose  goodness  filleth  every  clime,  93 

The  Grave  said  to  the  Rose,  128 

The  green  ear  ripes  while  the  sickle  stays,  96 

The  high  Midnight  was  garlanding  her  head,  65 

The  little  hands  that  once  were  mine,  219 

The  lone  cross  molders  in  the  graveyard  hoary,  190 

The  iTiaidens  short  of  stature,  brown  of  hands,  253 


284  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

The  moon  is  large,  the  heaven  fair,  i8i 

The  moon  more  indolently  dreams  to-night,  i66 

The  night  Don  Juan  came  to  pay  his  fees,  171 

The  pointed  houses  lean  so  you  would  swear,  248 

The  revel  pauses  and  the  room  is  still,  230 

The  roses  were  all  red,  216 

The  sea  is  brown  and  green  and  silver-flecked,  253 

The  sea  yields  foam  and  sand,  the  earth  yields  gold  as  well, 

126 
The  shepherd's  star  with  trembling  glint,  205 
The  singers  of  serenades,  198 
The  sky  is  up  above  the  roof,  193 
The  sky  so  pale,  and  the  trees,  such  pale  things,  200 
The  small  bird's  born  and  sing  in  Spring,   144 
The  sunshine  cannot  make  the  barracks  glad,  268 
The  swallow  in  the  spring  seeks  out  the  ruined  towers,  125 
The  three  girls  on  the  sea-shore,  238 
The  white  moon  sits,  211 
The  wind  the  other  evening  overthrew,  195 
The  year  has  changed  his  mantle  cold,  19 
Then  did  a  sharped  spyre  of  diamond  bright,  77 
Then  was  the  faire  Dodonian  tree  far  scene,  ^^ 
There  flourished  once  a  potentate,  99 
There  is  an  air  for  which  I  would  disown,  143 
There  is  great  mystery,  Simone,  235 
There's  a  flight  of  green  and  red,  215 
They  have  said  evil  of  my  dear,  30 
They  lied,  those  lying  traitors  all,  30 
They  pity  me,  244 

They  were  at  play,  she  and  her  cat,  210 
This  evening,  while  walking  alone  on  the  strand,  141 
This  month  of  May,  one  pleasant  eventide,  26 
This  on  thy  posy-ring  I've  writ,  63 
This  winter  night  is  odorous  of  spring,  257 
Thou  whom  the  swains  environ,  113 
Thy  arms  with  bracelets  I  will  deck,  237 
Time  goes,  you  say?    Ah,  no!  74 
'Tis  late :  the  astronomer  in  his  lonely  height,   183 
'Tis  night :  upon  her  mystic  throne,  142 
'Tis  the  ecstasy  of  repose,  212 
To  you,  troop  so  fleet,  78 
To-night  I  do  not  come  to  conquer  thee,  189 
Town,  tower,  116 
Twain  that  were  foes,  while  Mary  lived,  are  fled,  T^ 

Upon  a  tree  there  mounted  guard,  90 

Wearily  the  plain's,  214 

Weary  and  pale  as  death  from  that  great  fray,  193 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  285 

Well,  I  would  have  it  so.    I  should  have  known,  95 

We'll  to  the  woods  and  gather  may,  19 

We  are  in  love's  land  to-day,  151 

We  that  with  like  hearts  love,  we  lovers  twain,  79 

We  walk;  our  shadow  falls  in  the  rear,  182 

We  were  the  victims,  you  and  I,  203 

What  ails,  what  ails  you,  brothers,  dear?  114 

What  do  I  care  though  you  be  wise,  160 

What  happy  bonds  together  unite  you,  ye  living  and  dead,  97 

What  more?    Where  is  the  third  Calixt,  54 

When  a  sighing  begins,  210 

When  from  afar  these  mountain  tops  I  view,  62 

When  the  brimming  bowl  I  drain,  84 

When  the  crop  is  fair  in  the  olive-yard,  179 

When  the  fields  catch  flower,  8 

When  the  Lord  fashioned  man,  the  Lord  his  God,  187 

When  to  my  lone  soft  bed  at  eve  returning,  81 

When  we  go  together,  if  I  may  see  her  again,  224 

When,  you  and  1,  we  shall  have  passed  th'  infernal  stream,  87 

When  you  are  very  old,  at  evening,  72 

Who,  ere  daylight  breaks  above,  177 

Who  is  this  I  hear?    Lo,  this  is  I,  thine  heart,  58 

Will  ye  that  I  should  sing,  39 

Winter  is  passing,  and  the  bells,  172 

With  elbow  buried  in  the  downy  pillow,  150 

With  hands  that  touched  his  toes  the  Bouddha  dreamed,  186 

With  heart  at  rest  I  climbed  the  citadel's,  171 

Within  my  twentie  yeere  of  age,  10 

Within  the  sand  of  what  far  river  lies,  64 

Would  I  might  go  far  over  sea,  7 

Ye  Sons  of  France,  awake  to  glory!  97 
Yes !  that  fair  neck,  too  beautiful  by  half,  64 
Yesterday,  watching  the  swallows'  flight,   174 
You  believe  that  there  may  be,  224 
You  cannot  gather  up  my  look,  which  flows,  265 
You  said  to  me :    But  I  will  be  your  comrade,  247 
You  say,  "Where  goest  thou?"  I  cannot  tell,  141 
You,  you  have  given  me  my  noblest  pleasures,  245 
Your  memory  is  like  a  book  we  love,  235 
Your  soul  is  a  sealed  garden,  and  there  go,  199 


INDEX  OF  TRANSLATORS 


Anonymous 

Djinns,     The,     by     Victor 

Hugo,   ii6 
Marseilles   Hymn,   The,  by 

Joseph       Rouget       De 

LTsle,  97 


Eithell,  Jethro 
After  Midnight,  by  Charles 

Vildrac,    259 
Amsterdam,      by      Francis 

Jammes,  248 
An  Inn,  by  Charles  Vildrac, 

263 
Autumn,  by  Albert  Samain, 

232 
Ballad  of  the  Night,  A,  by 

Paul  Fort,  253 
Ballad  of  the  Season,  A,  by 

Paul  Fort,  253 
Barracks,  The,  by  Jules  Ro- 

mains,  268 
Beggar,    The,    by    Georges 

Duhamel,  265 
Church,  The,  by  Jules  Ro- 

mains,   273 
Commentary,     by     Charles 

Vildrac,  260 
Cricket's     Song,     The,     by 

Francis  Jammes,  251 
Delicate   Evening,    The,  by 

Charles  Guerin,  259 
Eventide,     by     Albert     Sa- 
main. 233 
Hair,    by    Remy    de    Gour- 

mont,  235 
Homage,  by  Gustave  Kahn, 

^Z7 


Bithell,  Jethro    (continued) 
I  Ask  You,  Love,  by  Alfred 

Mortier,  243 
I  Dreamed  of  a  Cruel  Lad, 

by  Gustave  Kahn,  236 
Journey's     End,     The,     by 

Charles  Guerin,  258 
Lonely,  by  Andre  Spire,  244 
Love,  by  Francis  Jammes, 

251 
Music    on   the    Waters,   by 

Albert  Samain,  229 
My  Own,  by  Gustave  Kahn, 

237 
Nudities,   by   Andre   Spire, 

247 

Pan  and  the  Cherries,  by 
Paul  Fort,  256 

Partings,  by  Charles 
Guerin,  257 

Sailor's  Song,  The,  by  Paul 
Fort,  256 

Sensation,  by  Arthur  Rim- 
baud, 228 

Sleepless  Night,  by  Albert 
Samain,  234 

Spring,    by     Andre     Spire, 

245 
Summer  Hours,  by  Albert 

Samain,  230 
Three    Girls    on    the    Sea- 
Shore,  by  Gustave  Kahn, 

238 
To    My    Books,    by    Andre 

Spire,  245 
Vain     Vows,     by     Charles 

Guerin,  257 
Yoiir    Memory,    by    Albert 

Samain,  235 


287 


288 


INDEX  OF  TRANSLATORS 


Bridges,  Robert 

Communion  of  Saints,  by 
Andre   Chenier,  97 

Povre  Ame  Amoureuse,  by 
Louis  Labe,  81 

Revenants      (Anonymous), 
267 
Bryant,  W.  C. 

Love  and  Folly,  by  La  Fon- 
taine, 91 

Chaucer 
From  La  Belle  Dame  Sans 
Mercy,  by  Alain  Chartier, 

From  the  Romaunt  of  the 
Rose,  by  Guillaume  de 
Lorris,   10 

Democratic  Review 

Veil,  The,  by  Victor  Hugo, 
114 
Dobson,  Austin 

Paradox  of  Time,  The,  by 

Pierre  de   Ronsard,  74 
Sonnet    of    the    Mountain, 

The,  by  Mellin  de  Saint- 

Gelais,  62 

To  Monsieur  de  la  Mothe 

le    Vayer,    by    Jean-Bap- 

tiste  Poquelin  Moliere,  92 
Dowden,  Prof.  Edward 
Poet's    Simple    Faith,    The, 

by  Victor  Hugo,  141 
Dowson,  Ernest 
Collogue     Sentimental,     by 

Paul  Verlaine,  191 
II  Pleut  Doucement  Sur  La 

Ville,   by    Paul   Verlaine, 

191 
Sky  is  Up  Above  the  Roof, 

The,    by    Paul    Verlaine, 

193 
Spleen,    by    Paul    Verlaine, 
192 

Flecker,  James  Elroy 
Don     Juan     in     Hell,     bv 

Cliailcs    Baudelaiic,     i,-^. 


Flecker,  J.  E.  (continued) 
Gate   of    the   Armies,    The, 

by    Henri    de    Regnier, 

241 
Hialmar     Speaks     to     the 

Raven,     by     Leconte     de 

Lisle,    153 
Litany  to  Satan,  by  Charles 

Baudelaire,    169 
Pannyra     of     the     Golden 

Heel,  by  Albert  Samain, 

230 
Philomel,    by     Paul    Fort, 

254 

Gosse,  Edmund 
Sleep,     by     Theophile     de 
Viau,  88 
Grierson,  A.  J,  C. 
Flute:  A  Pastoral,  The.  by 
Jose-Maria    de    Heredia, 
189 
Gwiney,  Dorothy  Frances 
Ideal,  The,  by  Sully  Prud- 
homme,  181 

Hardinge,  W.  M. 

Morning,  by  Victor  Hugo, 
140 
Ream,  Lafcadio 
Clarimonde,    by    Theophile 
Gautier,  150 
Henley,  W.  E. 

Alons  au  bois  le  may  cueil- 
lir,  by  Charles  D'Orleans, 

19 
And      Lightly,      Like      the 
Flowers,    by     Pierre    de 
Ronsard,  74 
Villon's  Straight  Tip  to  All 
Cross  Coves,  by  Francois 
Villon,  46 
Hodgson,  R.  F. 
Pool  and  the  Soul,  The,  by 
Victor   Hugo,   140 
Hueffer,  Ford  Madox 

Posy  Rinsr.  The,  by  Clem- 
crit  Marot,  63 


INDEX  OF  TRANSLATORS 


289 


Hunt,  Leigh 
Love-Lesson,    A,   by   Clem- 
ent Marot,  63 
Madame   d" Albert's   Laugh, 
by  Clement  Marot,  64 

I.  O.  L. 

Supplication,  A,  by  Sully 
Prudhomme,  180 

Keats,  John 

Fragment  of  a  Sonnet,  by 
Pierre  de  Ronsard,  68 
King,  Grace 

Moses,  by  Alfred  de  Vigny, 
112 

Lang,  Andrew 
An  Old  Time,  by  Gerard  de 

Nerval,  143 
April,  by  Remy  Belleau,  82 
Arbor  Amoris,  by  Francois 

Villon,  43 
Ballad    of    the    Gibbet,    by 

FranQois  Villon,  42 
Bridge      of      Death,      The 

(Anonymous),    35 
Deadly    Kisses,    by    Pierre 

de  Ronsard,  71 
"El  Desdichado,"  by  Gerard 

de  Nerval,   144 
Genesis  of  Butterflies,  The, 

by  Victor  Hugo,  128 
Grave  and  the   Rose,  The, 

by  Victor  Hugo,  128 
His  Lady's  Death,  by  Pierre 

de  Ronsard,  73 
His      Lady's      Tomb,      by 

Pierre  de  Ronsard,  72 
Hymn    to    the    Winds,    by 

Joachim  du  Bellay,  78 
Juana,  by  Alfred  de  Musset, 

145 

Lady  of  High  Degree,  A 
(Anonymous),    39 

Le  Pere  Severe  (Anony- 
mous), 36 

Lost  for  a  Rose's  Sake 
(Anonymous),    40 


Lang,  Andrew   (continued) 
Love  in  May,  by  Jean  Pas- 

serat,  67 
Milk      White      Doe,     The 

(Anonymous),  37 
Moonlight,       by       Jacques 

Tahureau,    65 
More  Strong  than  Time,  by 

Victor  Hugo,  129 
Musette,  by  Henri  Murger, 

174 

Of  His  Lady's  Old  Age,  by 
Pierre   de   Ronsard,   72 

Old  Loves,  by  Henri  Mur- 
ger,  173 

On  His  Lady's  Waking,  by 
Pierre  de  Ronsard,  72 

Rondel,  by  Charles  D'Or- 
leans,   18 

Rondel,  by  Frangois  Villon, 

43 

Rose,  The,  by  Pierre  de 
Ronsard,  69 

Roses,  by  Pierre  de  Ron- 
sard, 69 

Shadows  of  His  Lady,  by 
Jacques  Tahureau,  64 

Sonnet  to  Heavenly  Beauty, 
A,  by  Joachim  du  Bellay, 
80 

Spring,  by  Charles  D'Or- 
leans,    19 

Spring  in  the  Students' 
Quarter,  by  Henri  Mur- 
ger, 172 

Three  Captains,  The 
(Anonymous),  33 

To  His  Friend  in  Elysium, 
by    Joachim    du    Bellay, 

To  His  Young  Mistress,  by 

Pierre  de  Ronsard,  70 
To  the  Moon,  by  Pierre  de 

Ronsard,   70 
Vow  to  Heavenly  Venus,  A, 

by  Joachim  du  Bellay,  79 
Lewisohn,  Ludwig 
Bell  of  Dawn,  by  Paul  Fort, 

255 


290 


INDEX  OF  TRANSLATORS 


Longfellow,  H.  W. 

Death  of  Archbishop  Tur- 
pin,  from  the  Chanson  de 
Roland,  2 

Rondel,  by  Jean  Froissart, 
14 

Meredith,  George 

Mares    of    the    Camargue, 
The,  by  Frederic  Mistral, 
178 
Monkhouse,  Cosmo 
Rebel,     The,     by     Charles 
Baudelaire,  168 

O'Shaughnessy,    Arthur 

Appointment,  The,  by  Sully 
Prudhomme,   183 

Profanation,  by  Sully  Prud- 
homme,   182 

Shadow,  The,  by  Sully 
Prudhomme,   182 

Song  from  Chartivel,  by 
Marie  de  France,  6 

Struggle,  The,  by  Sully 
Prudhomme,    183 

Would    I    Might    Go    Far 
Over    Sea,   by    Marie   de 
France,  7 
O'SuUivan,  Seumas 

"Je  Ne  Veux  de  Personne 
Aupres  de  ma  Tristesse," 
by  Henri  de  Regnier,  240 

Night,  by  Henri  de  Reg- 
nier, 239 

Stanzas,  by  Henri  de  Reg- 
nier,  241 

Pasme,  John 

Aubade,  by  Victor  Hugo, 
124 

By  the  Seaside,  by  Victor 
Hugo,   126 

Canzonet  to  His  Mistress, 
by  Jean  Passerat,  66 

Don  Juan's  Song,  by  Alex- 
ander Dumas,    141 

Dream,  The,  by  Remy  Bel- 
leau,  87 


Payne,  John      If  continued) 

Evening,  by  Alphonse  de 
Lamartine,    no 

In  Praise  of  Wine,  by 
Remy  Belleau,  84 

In  the  Woods,  by  Gerard 
de  Nerval,   144 

June  Nights,  by  Victor 
Hugo,  125 

Last  Memory,  A,  by  Lecon- 
te  de  Lisle,  156 

Le  Lac,  by  Alphonse  de 
Lamartine,   105 

Light  on  the  Horizon,  by 
Victor  Hugo,  127 

Lonely  Hours,  The,  by  Vic- 
tor Hugo,  126 

Love  and  Money,  bv  Remy 
Belleau,  86 

Lover  and  the  Grasshop- 
pers, The,  by  Jean  Pas- 
serat, 65 

Love's  Nest,  by  \'ictor 
Hugo,    125 

Moonrise,  by  Leconte  de 
Lisle,  157 

Nightingale,  The,  by  Theo- 
dore de  Vanville,   176 

Refuge,  by  Marceline  Des- 
bordes-Valmore,    104 

Reverie,  by  Charles-Augus- 
tin  Sainte-Beuve,  142 

Sonnet,  by  Philip  Despor- 
tes,  86 

Sonnet,  by  Philip  Despor- 
tes,  87 

Virgin  Forest,  The,  by  Le- 
conte de  Lisle,   154 

Wish,  by  Charles-Augustin 
Sainte-Beuve,   142 
Piatt,  Arthur 

Long  As  I  Still  Can  Shed 
Tears,  by  Louise   Labe 
81 
Pound,  Ezra 

Dieu  Qu'il  La  Fait,  by 
Charles   D'Orleans.   20 

Rome,  by  Joachim  du  Bel- 
lay,  80 


INDEX  OF  TRANSLATORS 


291 


Preston,  Harriet  Waters 

At  the  Fountain,  by  Mar- 
cabrun,  3 

Behold  the  Meads,  by  Guil- 
lauine  de  Poitiers,  i 

Cocooning,  The,  by  Fred- 
eric Mistral,  179 

Ice-Hearted  Siren,  The,  by 
Jacques   Jasmin,    113 

Leaf-Picking,  The,  by 
Frederic    Mistral,    180 

No  Marvel  Is  It,  by  Ber- 
nard de  Ventadour,  5 


Randolph,   Charles 

From  the  Chorus  of  "Atha- 
lie,"  by  Jean  Racine,  93 
Robertson,  James 

Le  Cinq  Alay,  by  Pierre 
Jean  de  Beranger,  103 

Les  Ravages  du  Temps,  by 
Pierre  Corneille,  89 

Les  Souvenirs  du  Peuple, 
by  Pierre  Jean  de  Beran- 
ger,  100 

Tristesse,    by    Alfred    de 
Musset,  146 
Robertson,  W.  J. 

A  Hymn  of  the  Earth,  by 
Victor  Hugo,  135 

Death  of  the  Gods,  The,  by 
Jean   Richepin,  225 

Desires,  by  Guy  de  Mau- 
passant, 227 

Disciple,  The,  by  Catulle 
Mendes,  186 

Her  Name,  by  Victor 
Hugo,  131 

In  a  Church,  by  Victor 
Hugo,  133 

Love  Song,  A,  by  Theodore 
de    Banville,    177 

Mother,  The,  by  Catulle 
Mendes,  187 

My  Wishes,  by  Emile  Zola, 

185 
New  Song  to  an  Old  Air, 
by  Victor  Hugo,  132 


Robertson,  W.  J.  (continued) 
On  a  Tomb  in  Spring-Time, 

by  Frangois  Coppee,  190 
Streets     and     the     Woods, 

The,  by  Victor  Hugo,  138 
This     Age    Is     Great    and 

Strong,  by  Victor  Hugo, 

133 
Three  Birds,  The,  by  Fran- 
cois Coppee,   190 
Three  Days  of  Vintage,  by 

Alphonse  Daudet,  184 
To    a    Woman,    by    Victor 

Hugo,   132 
To     a     Young     Girl     that 

Begged    a    Lock    of    My 

Hair,  by  Alphonse  de  La- 

martine,    no 
To    the    Imperious    Beauty, 

by  Victor  Hugo,  139 
Valley,    The,    by    Alphonse 

Lamartine,   107 
Verse   of    Wordsworth,   A, 

by  Theophiic  Gautier,  152 
Young  Captive,  The,  by  An- 
dre Chenier,  96 
Ropes,  Arthur  Reed 
Meditation,       by       Charles 

Baudelaire,    168 
Rossetti,  D.  G. 
Ballad     of     Dead     Ladies, 

The,  by  Frangois  Villon, 

47 
His     Mother's     Service    to 

Our    Ladv,    by    Francois 

Villon,  48 
John       of       Tours       (Old 

French),  20 
My    Mather's    Close    (Old 

French),   41 
To  Death,  of  His  Lady,  by 

Frangois  Villon,  48 

Scintayana,    George 
Art,  by  Theophile  Gautier, 

147 
Smollett.  Tobias 
Stanzas     Upon     the     Epic 
Poets,  by  Voltaire,  93 


292 


INDEX  OF  TRANSLATORS 


Spencer 

From  the  Visions,  by  Joa- 
chim du  Bellay,  76 
Sturm,  F.  P. 

An  Allegory,  by  Charles 
Baudelaire,  164 

Balcony,  The,  by  Charles 
Baudelaire,    158 

Beauty,  by  Charles  Baude- 
laire, 165 

Little  Old  Women,  The,  by 
Charles    Baudelaire,    162 

Madrigal  of  Sorrow,  A, 
by  Charles  Baudelaire, 
160 

Robed  in  a  Silken  Robe, 
by  Charles  Baudelaire, 
161 

Sadness  of  the  Moon,  The, 
by  Charles  Baudelaire, 
166 

Seven  Old  Men,  The,  by 
Charles  Baudelaire,  166 

Spleen,  by  Charles  Baude- 
laire, 159 
Swinburne,  A.  C. 

April,  by  The  Vidame  de 
Chartres,  8 

Ballad  Against  the  Enemies 
of  France,  by  Frangois 
Villon,    57 

Ballad  of  the  Lords  of  Old 
Time,  by  Frangois  Villon, 

Ballad  of  the  Women  of 
Paris,  by  Frangois  Villon, 

55 

Ballad  Written  for  a 
Bridegroom,  by  Frangois 
Villon,  56 

Complaint  of  the  Fair  Ar- 
mouress.  The,  by  Fran- 
gois Villon,  49 

Dispute  of  the  Heart  and 
Body  of  Frangois  Vil- 
lon,  58 

Double  Ballad  of  Good 
Counsel,  by  Frangois  Vil- 
lon, 52 


Swinburne,  A.  C,( continued) 

Epistle  in  Form  of  a  Ballad 
to  His  Friends,  by  Fran- 
gois Villon,  60 

Epitaph  in  Form  of  a  Bal- 
lad, The,  by  Frangois  Vil- 
lon, 61 

Fragment  of  Death,  by 
Frangois  A'illon,  54 

Love  at  Sea,  by  Theophile 
Gautier,  151 

Poor  Children,  The,  by 
Victor  Hugo,   130 

Song  Before  Death 

(Anonymous),  267 
Symonds,  John  Addington 

Alas,  poor  heart,  I  pity 
thee  (Medieval  Norman 
Song),  28 

Before  my  lady's  window 
gay  (Medieval  Norman 
Song),  26 

Beneath  the  branch  of  the 
green  may  (Medieval 
Norman  Song),  30 

Drink,  gossips  mine !  we 
drink  no  wine  (Medie- 
val Norman  Song) ,  32  ^ 

Fair  is  her  body,  bright  is 
her  eye  (Medieval  Nor- 
man Song),  25 

I  found  at  daybreak  yester 
morn  (Medieval  Nor- 
man Song),  26 

In  this  merry  morn  of 
May  (Medieval  Norman 
Song),  27 

Kiss  me,  then,  my  merry 
May  (Medieval  Norman 
Song),  25 

Maid  Marjory  sits  at  the 
castle  gate  (Medieval 
Norman  Song),  31 

My  love  for  him  shall 
be  (Medieval  Norman 
Song),  29 

Now  who  is  he  on  earth 
that  lives  (Medieval 
Normal  Song),  28 


INDEX  OF  TRANSLATORS 


293 


Symonds,  J.   A.  (continued) 

O  Love,  my  love,  and  per- 
fect bliss!  (Medieval 
Nonnan  Song),  27 

O  nightingale  of  woodland 
ga}'  (Medieval  Norman 
Song),  31 

Sad,  lost  in  thought,  and 
mute  I  go  (Medieval 
Norman  Song),  25 

Sweet  flower,  that  art  so 
fair  and  gay  (Medieval 
Norman  Song),  29 

They  have  said  evil  of  my 
dear  (Medieval  Nor- 
man Song),  30 

They  lied,  those  lying  trai- 
tors all  (Medieval  Nor- 
man Song),  30 

This    month    of    May,    one 
pleasant     eventide     (Me- 
dieval Norman  Song),  26 
Symons,  Arthur 

A  la  Promenade,  by  Paul 
Verlaine,  200 

Anguish,  by  Stephane  Mal- 
larme,   189 

Art  Poetique,  by  Paul  Ver- 
laine, 217 

Chansons  d'Automne,  by 
Paul  Verlaine,  210 

Clair  De  Lune,  by  Paul 
Verlaine,   199 

Clymene,  A,  by  Paul  Ver- 
laine,  194 

Colombine,  by  Paul  Ver- 
laine,  207 

Cortege,  by  Paul  Verlaine, 
201 

Cythere,  by  Paul  Verlaine, 
197 

Dans  La  Grotte,  by  Paul 
Verlaine,  200 

Dans  lAllee,  by  Paul  Ver- 
laine,  197 

Elegy  (A  white  nymph 
wandering  in  the  woods 
by  night),  by  Andre 
Chenier,  95 


Symons,  Arthur  (continued) 

Elegy  (Every  man  has  his 
sorrows;  yet  each  still), 
by  Andre  Chenier,  94 

Elegy  (Well,  I  would  have 
it  so.  I  should  have 
known),  by  Andre  Che- 
nier, 95 

En  Bateau,  by  Paul  Ver- 
laine,   205 

En  Patinant,  by  Paul  Ver- 
laine, 203 

En  Sourdine,  by  Paul  Ver- 
laine,  208 

Epilogue,  by  Charles  Bau- 
delaire,  171 

Fantoches,  by  Paul  Ver- 
laine,  195 

Femme  Et  Chatte,  by  Paul 
Verlaine,    210 

From  Chansons  Pour  Elle, 
by  Paul  Verlaine,  224 

From  Epigrammes,  by  Paul 
Verlaine,  224 

From  Romances  sans  Pa- 
roles, by  Paul  Verlaine 
(A  frail  hand  in  the  rose- 
gray   evening),   213 

From  Romances  sans  Pa- 
roles, by  Paul  Ver- 
laine (Dance  the  jig!), 
216 

From  Romances  sans  Pa- 
roles, by  Paul  Verlaine 
Divine,  through  the 
veil  of  a  murmuring), 
213 

From  Romances  sans  Pa- 
roles, by  Paul  Verlaine 
(O  sad,  sad  was  my  soul, 
alas!),  214 

From  La  Bonne  Chanson, 
by  Paul  Verlaine  (The 
fireside,  the  lamp's  little 
narrow  light),  212 

From  Romances  sans  Pa- 
roles, by  Paul  Verlaine 
(The  roses  were  all  red), 
216 


2Si 


INDEX  OF  TRANSLATORS 


Symons,  Arthur  (continued) 

From  La  Bonne  Chanson, 
by  Paul  Verlaine  (The 
white  moon  sits),  211 

From  Romances  sans  Par- 
roles,  by  Paul  Verlaine 
(There's  a  flight  of  green 
and  red),  215 

From  Romances  sans  Pa- 
roles, by  Paul  Verlaine 
('Tis  the  ecstasy  of  re- 
pose), 212 

From  Romances  satis  Pa- 
roles, by  Paul  Verlaine 
(Wearily     the     plain's). 

From  Sagesse,  by  _  Paul 
Verlaine  (Fairer  is  the 
sea),  222 

From  Sagesse,  by  Paul 
Verlaine  (O  my  God, 
thou  hast  wounded  me 
with  love),  219 

From  Sagesse,  by  Paul 
Verlaine  (Slumber  dark 
and   deep),  221 

From  Sagesse,  by  Paul 
Verlaine  (The  body's 
sadness  and  the  languor 
thereof),  221 

From  Sagesse,  by  Paul 
Verlaine  (The  little 
hands  that  once  were 
mine),  219 

Impression  Fausse,  by  Paul 
Verlaine,  223 

L'Amour  Par  Terrea,  by 
Paul  Verlaine,  195 

Le  Faune,  by  Paul  Ver- 
laine, 206 

Les  Coquillages,  by  Paul 
Verlaine,  202 

Les  Indolents,  by  Paul  Ver- 
laine,  196 

Les  Ingenus,  by  Paul  Ver- 
laine, 201 


Symons,  Arthur  (continued) 

Lettre,  by  Paul  Verlaine, 
206 

Mandoline,  by  Paul  Ver- 
laine,  198 

Mezzetin  Chantant,  by  Paul 
Verlaine,   218 

No,  I  am  Not  As  Others 
Are,  by  Frangois  Villon, 

45 

Pantomime,  by  Paul  Ver- 
laine, 196 

Posthumous  Coquetry,  by 
Theophile  Gautier,   149 

Sea-Wind,  by  Stephane 
Mallarme,    188 

Sigh,  by  Stephane  Mal- 
larme,  188 

Soleils  Couchants,  by  Paul 
Verlaine,  209 

Sur  I'Herbe,  by  Paul  Ver- 
laine, 199 

Thompson,  Francis 

Heard  on  the  Mountain,  by 

Victor    Hugo,    121 
Sunset,  A,  by  Victor  Hugo, 
119 
Toynbee,  William 
King   of    Yvetot,    The,   by 
Pierre    Jean    de    Beran- 
ger,  99 

Wilde,  Oscar 

Ballade       de       Marguerite 
(Anonymous),  22 
Dole  of  the  King's  Daugh- 
ter,   The    (Anonymous), 
24 
Wright,  Cuthbert 
Parsifal,  by  Paul  Verlaine, 

193 
Wright,  E. 
Cock  and  the  Fox,  The,  by 
La  Fontaine,  go 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


A  la   Promenade,  200 

After  Midnight,  259 

Alons  au  bois  le  may  cueil- 
lir,   19 

Amsterdam,    248 

An   Allegory,   164 

An  Inn,  263 

An  Old  Tune,  143 

And  Lightly,  Like  the  Flow- 
ers, 74 

Anguish,  189 

Appointment,  The,  183 

April,  8 

April,  82 

Arbor  Amoris,  43 

Art,    147  _ 

Art  Poetique,  217 

At  the   Fountain,  3 

Aubade,   124 

Autumn,  232 

Balcony,   The,    158 

Ballad   Against  the   Enemies 

of   France,  57 
Ballad  of  the  Lords  of  Old 

Time,  54 
Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies,  The, 

47 
Ballad  of  the  Gibbet,  42 
Ballad  of   the   Night,  A,  253 
Ballad  of  the  Season,  A,  253 
Ballad    of     the    Women     of 

Paris,  55 
Ballad  Written  for  a  Bride- 
groom, 56 
Ballade  de  Marguerite,  22 
Barracks,   The,  268 
Beauty,   165 
Beggar,  The,  265 


Behold  the  Meads,  i 
Bell    of    Dawn,    255 
Bridge  of  Death,  The,  35 
By   the   Seaside,    126 

Canzonet  to  His  Mistress,  66 
Chansons  d'Automne,  210 
Church,  The,  273 
Clair  De  Lune,  199 
Clarimonde,  150 
Clymene,  A,   194 
Cock   and   the   Fox,   The,  90 
Cocooning,  The,   179 
CoUoque  Sentimental,  191 
Colombine,  207 
Communion  of  Saints,  97 
Commentary,  260 
Complaint    of    the   Fair   Ar- 

mouress.  The,  49 
Cortege,  201 

Cricket's  Song,  The,  251 
Cythere,    197 

Dans   La   Grotte,  200 

Dans    I'Allee,    197 

Deadly   Kisses,   71 

Death    of    Archbishop    Tur- 

pin,  2 
Death  of  the  Gods,  The,  225 
Delicate    Evening,    The,    259 
Desires,   227 
Dieu  Qu'il  La  Fait,  20 
Disciple,  The,    186 
Dispute    of    the    Heart    and 

Body  of  Frangois  Villon, 

The,   58 
Djinns,  The,   116 
Dole  of  the  King's  Daughter, 

The,  24 


295 


296 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Don  Juan  in  Hell,  171 
Don  Juan's  Song,  141 
Double  Ballad  of  Good  Coun- 
sel, A,  52 
Dream,   The,  87 

"El  Desdichado,"   144 

ELEGY 

A  white  nymph  wandering 
in  the  woods  by  night,  95 
Every    man    has    his    sor- 
rows ;  yet  each  still,  94 
Well,   I   would   have  it   so. 
I  should  have  known,  95 

En  Bateau,  205 

En   Patinant,  203 

En   Sourdine,  208 

Epilogue,   171 

Epistle  in  Form  of  a  Ballad 
to  His  Friends,  60 

Epitaph  in  Form  of  a  Ballad, 
The,  61 

Evening,  no 

Eventide,  233 

Fantoches,  19S 
Femme  Et  Chatte,  210 
Flute:   A   Pastoral,  The,   189 
For   the   Book  of   Love,   239 
Fragment  of  a  Sonnet,  68 
Fragment  of  Death,  54 
From    Chansons    Pour    Elle, 

224 
From  Epigrammes,  224 
From   La    Belle   Dame    Sans 

Mercy,  14 
From  the   Chorus  of  "Atha- 

lie,"    93 
From    the    Romaunt    of   the 

Rose,    10 
From  the  Visions,  76 

Gate  of  the  Armies,  The,  241 
Genesis    of    Butterflies,    The, 

128 
Grave  and  the  Rose,  The,  128 

Hair,  235 

Heard  on  the  Mountain,  121 


Her   Name,    131 

Hialmar  Speaks  to  the  Ra- 
ven,   153 

His  Lady's  Death,  73 

His  Lady's  Tomb,  y^ 

His  Mother's  Service  to  Onr 
Lady,  48 

Homage,  237 

Hymn  of  the  Earth,  A,   135 

Hymn  to  the  Winds,  78 

I  Ask  You,  Love,  243 

I  Dreamed  of  a   Cruel  Lad, 

236 
Ice-Hearted    Siren,    The,    113 
Ideal,    The,    181 

II  Pleut  Doucement   Sur  La 

Ville,  191 
Impression    Fausse,    222 
In  a  Church,  133 
In  Praise  of  Wine,  84 
In  the  Woods,  144 

"Je    Ne    Veux    de    Personn*; 

Aupres  de  ma  Tristesse," 

240 
John  of  Tours,  20 
Journey's  End,  The,  258 
Juana,   145 
June  Nights,  125 

King  of  Yvetot,  The,  99 

LA  BONNE  CHANSON  _ 
The  fireside,  the  lamp's  lit- 
tle narrow  light,  212 
The  white  moon  sits,  211 

L'Amour  Par  Terrea,  195 

Lady  of  High  Degree,  A,  39 

Last  Memory,  A,  156 

Le  Cinq  May,  103 

Le  Faune,  206 

Le  Lac,  105 

Le  Pere  Severe,  36 

Leaf-Picking,  The,  180 

Les   Coquillages,  202 

Les  Indolents,   196 

Les  Ingenus,   201 

Les  Ravages  du  Temps,  89 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


297 


Les  Souvenirs  du  Peuple,  lOO 

Lettre,  206 

Light  on  the  Horizon,  127 

Litany  to  Satan,  169 

Little  Old  Woman,  The,  162 

Lonely,  244 

Lonely  Hours,  The,  126 

Long   As   I    Still   Can   Shed 

Tears,  81 
Lost   for  a   Rose's    Sake,   40 
Love,  251 
Love  and  Folly,  91 
Love  and  Money,  86 
Love  at  Sea,  151 
Love  in  IMay,  67 
Love  Song,  A,  177 
Love-Lesson,  A,  63 
Lover  and  the  Grasshoppers, 

The,  65 
Love's  Nest,  125 

Madame  d'Albert's  Laugh,  64 
Madrigal  of   Sorrow,  A,   160 
Mandoline,   198 
Mares  of  the  Camargue,  The, 

178 
Marseilles  Hymn,  The,  97 
MEDIEVAL     NORMAN 
SONGS 
Alas,    poor    heart,    I    pity 

thee,  28 
Before    my   lady's   window 

gay,  26 
Beneath  the  branch  of  the 

green  may,  30 
Drink,    gossips    mine !    we 

drink  no  wine,  32 
Fair  is  her  body,  bright  her 

eye,  25 
I  found  at  daybreak  yester 

morn,  26 
In  this  merry  morn  of  May, 

27 
Kiss    me,    then,    my    merry 

May,  25 
Maid    Marjory   sits   at   the 

castle  gate,  31 
My  love  for  him  shall  be, 
2g 


MEDIEVAL  NORMAN 
SONGS  (continued) 

Now  who  is  he  on  earth 
that  lives,  28 

O  Love,  my  love,  and  per- 
fect bliss!  27 

O  nightingale  of  woodland 

gay,  31 

Sad,  lost  in  thought,  and 
mute    I    go,   25 

Sweet  flower,  that  art  so 
fair  and  gay,  29 

They  have  said  evil  of  my 
dear,  30 

They  lied,  those  lying  trai- 
tors all,  30 

This    month    of    May,    one 

pleasant   eventide,  26 
Meditation,    168 
Mezzetin   Chantant,  218 
Milk  White  Doe,  The,  37 
Moonlight,  65 
Moonrise,   157 

More  Strong  than  Time,  129 
Morning,    140 
Moses,    112 
MotherrTbe,~i87 
Musette,   174 

Music  on  the  Waters,  229 
My  Father's  Qose,  41 
My  Own,  237 
My  Wishes,  185 

New    Song   to   an    Old    Air, 

132 
Night,    239 

Nightingale,    The,    176 
No,    I    Am    Not   As    Others 

Are,  45 
No  Marvel  Is  It,  5 
Now    the    Sweet    Eves    Are 

Withered,  242 
Nudities,  247 

Of  His   Lady's   Old   Age,  72 

Old   Loves,    173 

On  a  Tomb  in  Spring-Time, 

190 
On  His  Lady's  Waking,  72 


298 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Pan  and  the  Cherries,  256 
Pannyra  of  the  Golden  Heel, 

230 
Pantomime,  196 
Paradox  of  Time,  The,  74 
Parsifal,    193 
Partings,  257 
Philomel,    254 
Poet's     Simple     Faith,     The, 

141 
Pool  and  the  Soul,  The,  140 
Poor    Children,    The,    130 
Posthumous  Coquetry,  149 
Posy   Ring,   The,  63 
Povre    Ame    Amoureuse,    81 
Prayer    to    Go    to    Paradise 

with  the  Asses,  250 
Profanation,    182 

Rebel,    The,    168 
Refuge,   104 
Revenants,  267 
Reverie,  142 

Robed  in  a  Silken  Robe,  161 
ROMANCES     SANS     PA- 
ROLES 
A   frail   hand   in  the  rose- 
gray  evening,  213 
Dance  the  jig!  216 
I   Divine,  through  the  veil 

of  a  murmuring,  213 
O    sad,    sad   was    my   soul, 

alas !  214 
The    roses    were    all    red, 

216 
There's    a    flight    of    green 

and  red,  215 
'Tis  the  ecstasy  of  repose, 

212 
Wearily  the  plain's,  214 
Rome,  80 
Rondel,  14 
Rondel,   18 
Rondel,   43 
Rose,  The,  69 
Roses,  69 

Sadness  of  the  Moon,  The, 
166 


SAG ESSE 

Fairer  is  the  sea,  222 
O     my     God,     thou     hast 
wounded    me    with    love, 
219 
Slumber  dark  and  deep,  221 
The  body's  sadness  and  the 

languor   thereof,  221 
The  little  hands   that  once 
were  mine,  219 
Sailor's    Song,    The,   256 
Sea-Wind,  188 
Sensation,  228 
Seven  Old  Men,  The,  166 
Shadow,  The,  182 
Shadows  of  His  Lady,  64 
Sigh,   188 
Sky  Is  Up  Above  the  Roof, 

193 
Sleep,  88 

Sleepless  Night,  234 
Soleils    Couchants,    209 
Song  Before  Death,  267 
Song  from  Chartivel,  6 
Sonnet,  87 
Sonnet,  86 
Sonnet   to   Heavenly  Beauty, 

A,  80 
Sonnet     of     the     Mountain, 

The,  62 
Spleen,  159 
Spleen,  192 
Spring,  19 
Sprmg,  245 
Spring      in      the      Students' 

Quarter,  172 
Stanzas,  241 
Stanzas  Upon  the  Epic  Poets, 

93 
Streets  and  the  Woods,  The, 

138 
Struggle,  The,  183 
Summer  Hours,  230 
Sunset,  A,  119 
Supplication,   A,    180 
Sur  I'Herbe,    199 

This     Age     Is     Great     and 

Strong,  133 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


299 


Three  Birds,  The,   190 
Three  Captains,  The,  33 
Three  Days  of  Vintage,  184 
Three  Girls  on  the  Sea-Shore, 

The,   238 
To  a  Woman,   132 
To  a  Young  Girl  that  Begged 

a  Lock  of  My  Hair,  no 
To  Death,  of  His  Lady,  48 
To  His  Friend  in  Elysium,  79 
To  His  Young  Mistress,  70 
To  Monsieur  de  la  Mothe  le 

Vayer,  92 
To  My  Books,  245 
To  the  Imperious  Beauty,  139 
To  the  Moon,  70 
Tristesse,    146 


Vain  Vows,  257 

Valley,  The,  107 

Veil,  The,  114 

Verse  of  Wordsworth,  A,  152 

Villon's    Straight   Tip   to  All 

Cross  Coves,  46 
Virgin  Forest,  The,  154 
Vow  to  Heavenly  Venus,  A, 

79 

Wish,  142 

Would  I  Might  Go  Far  Over 
Sea,  7 

Young    Captive,    The,   96 
Your  Memory,  235 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


MAY  1 4 1997 


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